Dang it. I think I am lost, where am I heading to? Aha, I must be on my way to visit my relatives. That's fine, I will ask the gentleman who is now coming my way, "excuse me, do you know a house? It has a brown roof... and...hm... a door... brown too." The man stops in his tracks, his confusion gradually clears up, "sure, may I?" he offers me his hand, "the house is some distance away." I gladly take his hand, "lovely! What a gentleman you are!"
Before we can knock, the door flings open. She throws a kitchen towel at me, "bloody hell! Maria, where have you been? I told you to stay in my sight while I do the dishwashing!" She is in her mid-forties, her delicate features are contorted with anger. She might be beautiful, but she is not being graceful. I flash a smile at the man beside me, "don't shout at me, Mother, meet my boyfriend Tom." She looks embarrassed and apologetic all at once, "stop the nonsense, who wants someone as old as you?" She turns away from me, "get your stuff ready, we are going to the doctor." I pout, I am not sick, why should I go to the doctor?
Waiting in the clinic is the worst torment, it takes ages before the doctor is ready. After we enter the room, I am repulsed by th doctor's messy desk, so I take the seat at the other end of the office where there is a pile of board games. I pick up the Scrabble and pour all the content on the table. The doctor sits back, "how are we doing? Any symptoms we should be worried about?"
She nods slowly.
"Don't worry, we will do everything we can."
"I thought it was incurable?"
"It is, but we can slow it down." The words are loud and clear, but she doesn't seem to understand.
I have been playing mindlessly with the Scrabble tiles on my hand. I can't looked away from her this whole time. What is on her mind now? Is someone dying?
"Remember the tests we ran?" the doctor pushes a piece of A4 paper to her, "you might want to take a look at the result." She hesitates. A small breath escapes from her while she is skimming through the lines, it doesn't take a genius to figure out the test result is awful.
The atmosphere is horrible when we are preparing dinner. I steal a glance from her, "Mother, are you alright?" She nods after a full minute. The action so small I almost miss it. I try in vain to lift the mood, "what are we having tonight?" She doesn't look at me, "we got some Chinese leftovers, fancy that?" Steam rises steadily from the plain white rice. It is hot, yet too hot to be put into your mouth. I won't risk myself getting food poisoning, "I thought we are having pizza?"
"I haven't got time to cook," she says bitterly, "eat it or leave it."
I wince. I can't fathom her frustration. Does something happen today, or does she not like pizza? I sweep all the dishes onto the floor, "leave it!", "leave it!", "leave it!". Yes, she lets me choose. I don't want leftovers, so I will leave it, just as she wants.
The broken pieces lay motionless on the ground, time seems to have frozen. No one in the house dared to move, the silence is deafening. "Maria...," it comes merely a whisper from her, all the sadness are written on her face, "go upstairs, I will get the water running for your bath."
I slip into the bathtub, the warmness of the water soothes me down instantly. She kneels next to me, cleansing me with body wash, splashing water over my body where the foam has just been. I can't read her emotion, or is it the evaporation that makes everything difficult to see? "Have I done something wrong?" I gather my courage and ask, "are you upset because of me?" She studies me with the same sad eyes, she doesn't answer my question, "I will grab the towel for you."
I try to follow her, willing her not to leave me, but she is fast, she vanishes into the mist before I step out of the tub.
The bathroom mirror has fogged up, the image lying behind is calling out to me. Cautiously, I wipe the vapor off. I am staring directly at an old woman, gray-haired with streaks of white, multiple crow's feet imprinted around the eyes, ribs protruding from the skinny frame. I look down at my hands, only lines and sunspots are visible on the transparent skins.
That's right. I look into the mirror. This is me. I was born in 1936 in France. I touch my face lightly. I moved to California when I was twenty. My mother... she is not here anymore. Once the memories surface, there is no stopping. She can't wait to see her granddaughter. Yes, I should have a daughter, her name is...
A new reflection emerges at the corner of the mirror. I turn, and there she is. She is Beverly.
My legs are giving out and I am trembling. I clumsily back away, clawing helplessly in the air for something to hold onto. Beverly comes at me, wrapping the white bath towel around my naked body.
"Am I...," a big lump forms in my throat, I have the words, but I can't get them out, "forgetting?"
"You become that little girl again."
That little girl. Of course, the little girl who begged to have gâteau au chocolat every birthday, totally unaware that Alzheimer has locked its eye on her. My mind is fading. It is funny yet scary. Funny because we have the privilege to choose what memories to keep when we are young; when we get old, it is up to the memories choosing us who to be. Scary because you won't recognize anymore, every day is a new day to you, everyone is a stranger to you.
"I am sorry, I didn't mean you any trouble."
"Don't." Beverly falls silent, "I AM sorry, I should have realized it sooner."
No one could have realized it. It started so small: it was pure forgetting at first, about the bills, the car key, the purse... everyone has been there. But then, my brain starts playing tricks: it prohibits me to think, it stops me from feeling, it forces me to act differently. And now, I have plunged into the abyss of time, random memories sometimes zip past me, which I have no control of, but most of the time, I am surrounded by nothingness. And I am still falling.
She lowers her head, "Mum...I am getting married, and I found myself a job."
"That's good."
"No! It is not good..." she trails off, "Jack and I have decided to move to Texas and my job is there too. I can't travel back and forth to look after you. But I have found you a home nurse, and neighbor Tom will have you accompanied if you are bored!"
Will you be happier if I let you go, Beverly?
"Texas is beautiful, the waterfalls, the parks, the cityscapes... I can't wait to see them!"
Will you forget me then, Beverly?
"Don't worry, Jack and I will stop by to come to visit you on holiday."
Am I a burden to you, Beverly?
"You are going to be fine, Mum"
Will I ever be fine? My life WAS fine before dementia came. I protect my child away from sadness, I plan everything so my child lives carefree, I will give up anything, even my memories, for my child to be happy. And now I am her source of sadness, pressure, worry? How ironic.
I cup her cheeks in my palms. I don't want to go, Beverly. I don't want to go somewhere so far away that I can't even come to see you.
"Have I done something wrong?" I gather my courage and ask, "are you upset because of me?"
The doctor is about to leave his office when he notices the Scrabble board. The passing nurse notices the board too, she draws closer, "M.A.F.I.L.L.E? What is that supposed to mean?"
The doctor holds the board, careful not to disturb the words on it, recalling which patient has touched his game today, "you have to separate the a and the f. It is French, it means ‘my daughter'."
Before we can knock, the door flings open. She throws a kitchen towel at me, "bloody hell! Maria, where have you been? I told you to stay in my sight while I do the dishwashing!" She is in her mid-forties, her delicate features are contorted with anger. She might be beautiful, but she is not being graceful. I flash a smile at the man beside me, "don't shout at me, Mother, meet my boyfriend Tom." She looks embarrassed and apologetic all at once, "stop the nonsense, who wants someone as old as you?" She turns away from me, "get your stuff ready, we are going to the doctor." I pout, I am not sick, why should I go to the doctor?
Waiting in the clinic is the worst torment, it takes ages before the doctor is ready. After we enter the room, I am repulsed by th doctor's messy desk, so I take the seat at the other end of the office where there is a pile of board games. I pick up the Scrabble and pour all the content on the table. The doctor sits back, "how are we doing? Any symptoms we should be worried about?"
She nods slowly.
"Don't worry, we will do everything we can."
"I thought it was incurable?"
"It is, but we can slow it down." The words are loud and clear, but she doesn't seem to understand.
I have been playing mindlessly with the Scrabble tiles on my hand. I can't looked away from her this whole time. What is on her mind now? Is someone dying?
"Remember the tests we ran?" the doctor pushes a piece of A4 paper to her, "you might want to take a look at the result." She hesitates. A small breath escapes from her while she is skimming through the lines, it doesn't take a genius to figure out the test result is awful.
The atmosphere is horrible when we are preparing dinner. I steal a glance from her, "Mother, are you alright?" She nods after a full minute. The action so small I almost miss it. I try in vain to lift the mood, "what are we having tonight?" She doesn't look at me, "we got some Chinese leftovers, fancy that?" Steam rises steadily from the plain white rice. It is hot, yet too hot to be put into your mouth. I won't risk myself getting food poisoning, "I thought we are having pizza?"
"I haven't got time to cook," she says bitterly, "eat it or leave it."
I wince. I can't fathom her frustration. Does something happen today, or does she not like pizza? I sweep all the dishes onto the floor, "leave it!", "leave it!", "leave it!". Yes, she lets me choose. I don't want leftovers, so I will leave it, just as she wants.
The broken pieces lay motionless on the ground, time seems to have frozen. No one in the house dared to move, the silence is deafening. "Maria...," it comes merely a whisper from her, all the sadness are written on her face, "go upstairs, I will get the water running for your bath."
I slip into the bathtub, the warmness of the water soothes me down instantly. She kneels next to me, cleansing me with body wash, splashing water over my body where the foam has just been. I can't read her emotion, or is it the evaporation that makes everything difficult to see? "Have I done something wrong?" I gather my courage and ask, "are you upset because of me?" She studies me with the same sad eyes, she doesn't answer my question, "I will grab the towel for you."
I try to follow her, willing her not to leave me, but she is fast, she vanishes into the mist before I step out of the tub.
The bathroom mirror has fogged up, the image lying behind is calling out to me. Cautiously, I wipe the vapor off. I am staring directly at an old woman, gray-haired with streaks of white, multiple crow's feet imprinted around the eyes, ribs protruding from the skinny frame. I look down at my hands, only lines and sunspots are visible on the transparent skins.
That's right. I look into the mirror. This is me. I was born in 1936 in France. I touch my face lightly. I moved to California when I was twenty. My mother... she is not here anymore. Once the memories surface, there is no stopping. She can't wait to see her granddaughter. Yes, I should have a daughter, her name is...
A new reflection emerges at the corner of the mirror. I turn, and there she is. She is Beverly.
My legs are giving out and I am trembling. I clumsily back away, clawing helplessly in the air for something to hold onto. Beverly comes at me, wrapping the white bath towel around my naked body.
"Am I...," a big lump forms in my throat, I have the words, but I can't get them out, "forgetting?"
"You become that little girl again."
That little girl. Of course, the little girl who begged to have gâteau au chocolat every birthday, totally unaware that Alzheimer has locked its eye on her. My mind is fading. It is funny yet scary. Funny because we have the privilege to choose what memories to keep when we are young; when we get old, it is up to the memories choosing us who to be. Scary because you won't recognize anymore, every day is a new day to you, everyone is a stranger to you.
"I am sorry, I didn't mean you any trouble."
"Don't." Beverly falls silent, "I AM sorry, I should have realized it sooner."
No one could have realized it. It started so small: it was pure forgetting at first, about the bills, the car key, the purse... everyone has been there. But then, my brain starts playing tricks: it prohibits me to think, it stops me from feeling, it forces me to act differently. And now, I have plunged into the abyss of time, random memories sometimes zip past me, which I have no control of, but most of the time, I am surrounded by nothingness. And I am still falling.
She lowers her head, "Mum...I am getting married, and I found myself a job."
"That's good."
"No! It is not good..." she trails off, "Jack and I have decided to move to Texas and my job is there too. I can't travel back and forth to look after you. But I have found you a home nurse, and neighbor Tom will have you accompanied if you are bored!"
Will you be happier if I let you go, Beverly?
"Texas is beautiful, the waterfalls, the parks, the cityscapes... I can't wait to see them!"
Will you forget me then, Beverly?
"Don't worry, Jack and I will stop by to come to visit you on holiday."
Am I a burden to you, Beverly?
"You are going to be fine, Mum"
Will I ever be fine? My life WAS fine before dementia came. I protect my child away from sadness, I plan everything so my child lives carefree, I will give up anything, even my memories, for my child to be happy. And now I am her source of sadness, pressure, worry? How ironic.
I cup her cheeks in my palms. I don't want to go, Beverly. I don't want to go somewhere so far away that I can't even come to see you.
"Have I done something wrong?" I gather my courage and ask, "are you upset because of me?"
The doctor is about to leave his office when he notices the Scrabble board. The passing nurse notices the board too, she draws closer, "M.A.F.I.L.L.E? What is that supposed to mean?"
The doctor holds the board, careful not to disturb the words on it, recalling which patient has touched his game today, "you have to separate the a and the f. It is French, it means ‘my daughter'."