God gave us memory
so that we might have roses in December.
J. M. Barrie (1860–1937)
Alzheimer’s Dementia is an insidious disease destined to affect as many as ten percent of our maturing population. For most of us, its social, emotional, and financial impact on family members is all too familiar. What we don’t know, and may never know, is what transpires in the minds of those afflicted. Below is a short story from the viewpoint of an Alzheimer’s patient. It is a work of fiction and represents one person’s depiction of the disease.
Frozen Memories
Winner of Marquette Monthly’s 2011 Annual Short-Story Contest
By Larry Buege
I awake in a panic—this isn’t my bedroom! Snapshots of happy families and small boys with baseball bats resting on their shoulders adorn the wall beside my bed, but I don’t know these people and it scares me. What if they return and find me sleeping in their bed? I sit up in bed to make good my escape and discover someone has lashed me to the bed frame. Fear turns to rage, and I rip violently at the heavy canvas straps that tether my hips to the sides of the bed, but the straps refuse to yield. My screams mutate into deep growls and snarls that vent my frustration, although they offer no physical relief. Then a strange woman wearing a yellow, flowery smock enters the bedroom.
“Good morning, John. It’s Sally.”
I glare at the woman. She has to be responsible for tying me to the bed. I hate her. If she comes closer, I can scratch her face or maybe bite her. She seems to understand my intentions and maintains her distance.
“Alice is coming to visit today. You don’t want her to see you acting like this, do you?”
“I need to go home.”
“Yes, of course you do. How could I forget?” she replies. “I believe I have your bus ticket right here.” She reaches into the pocket of her smock and pulls out a small card. “Here’s your bus ticket.”
She gives me the ticket and then steps back. I carefully study the ticket. It says Park Place at the top. The ticket price is three hundred and fifty dollars. There is also information about hotels, which I ignore—I won’t need a hotel; I’m going home.
“If we are going to get you to the bus stop on time, we need to get you dressed.”
She helps me dress. She’s a nice lady. “What is your name?” I ask.
“My name’s Sally. Now let’s get you into the wheel chair, so I can push you down to the bus stop.”
She helps me onto my feet, but my legs cross and I can’t separate them. She gives me a twist and I collapse into my wheelchair, my bus ticket firmly clinched in my hand.
“Alice will arrive around noon, so you can eat lunch with her.”
I’ll be on the bus before noon, but that’s okay; I don’t know Alice. The nice lady with the yellow smock rolls me through the double doors and into the sunlight. I wish I knew her name. She pushes the wheelchair along the sidewalk and then onto the newly mowed grass. The smell reminds me of the fresh-cut alfalfa of my youth. The lady rolls my wheelchair up to the end of a picnic table near two tall spruce trees. The table top was recently varnished, but bird droppings already decorate its surface.
“Is this yours?” I ask. I hold up the card in my right hand. “I don’t know if this is any good.”
“Yes, I believe that is mine,” she says. “I’ve been looking all over for that.” I give her the card. She seems happy and slips the card into her pocket.
“When Alice arrives, I’ll bring your lunches, so you and Alice can have a picnic. Won’t that be fun?”
I don’t understand what she is saying and offer no reply. She leaves me in my wheelchair, alone with my thoughts; but I don’t mind. I seldom get outside. A chickadee in the spruce tree scolds me for invading its space. It darts from branch to branch announcing its displeasure to all who will listen. Down below Robins hop about on the lawn, pausing periodically to pull reluctant worms from the thick sod. The birds offer simple entertainment.
The kind lady soon returns with a woman in her mid thirties. The young woman is dressed in a gray business suit, and I wonder if she is my doctor.
“Alice is here to visit with you,” the kind lady says.
The young lady takes my right hand in both of hers and sits down at the picnic table. Her hands are soft and gentle and affectionately caress the back of my hand.
“How are you today?” she asks with a pleasant smile.
“I’m fine,” I reply. “What’s your name?”
“My name’s Alice. I came to spend the afternoon with you.”
She lets go of my hand long enough to retrieve a comb from her purse and run it gently through my gray hair. She’s a nice lady. She places the comb back in her purse.
“Do you want a mint?” she asks. She finds a roll of mints in her purse and places one in her mouth. I open my mouth in anticipation. She takes another mint and places it on my tongue.
“Thank you,” I say.
She sets the roll of mints on the picnic table and again takes my hand in her hands. It feels good. Her hands are so soft and smooth. I look down at my hands. They are rough and wrinkled with age, hardly worthy of her attention.
“What’s your name?”
“My name’s Alice.”
She smiles at me. I wish she would come more often. I don’t get many visitors. She’s a very pretty lady.
“Do you live near here?” I ask.
“I live in Wexford. It’s about one hundred and twenty miles south of here. I wish I lived closer. Then I could visit more often.”
“I’ve never heard of Wexford.” She has nice brown eyes, and when she smiles, her whole face smiles with her. “Do you come here often?”
“I was here last week.”
“I wish you would have stopped by to see me.”
“Do you remember Tommy? He’s on a Little League team now. He says to tell you hello. I have a picture of him.”
The young lady retrieves a snapshot from her purse and gives it to me. The picture shows a small boy with a bat at his shoulder smiling at the camera. His smile reminds me of the kind lady. I don’t know the boy but nod anyway so as to not hurt the lady’s feelings. He’s a nice looking boy.
“Except for the dark hair, I think he looks like his grandfather.” The lady places the picture back in her purse. “I want you to have the picture. I’ll pin it on your bulletin board when we return to your room.”
The kind lady from the nursing home returns with two food trays. She places one tray in front of me and gives the other to my lady friend. “Have you two been having fun?” she asks.
“We’re having a good conversation,” my lady friend replies. “I showed him a picture of Tommy, and I think he recognized him.”
“You need to eat before everything gets cold,” the kind lady says. “Today we have roast beef and mashed potatoes. John loves mashed potatoes and gravy.”
I look at the mashed potatoes and my mouth begins to water. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. I take a spoon and scoop up some potatoes. My hand trembles and I miss my mouth. The gravy and potatoes drip down from my chin onto my shirt. Taking a napkin from my tray, the lady wipes my mouth and face. Then she gently pries the spoon from my hand. “Let me help,” she says.
She takes some potato in the spoon and lifts it to my mouth. I open my mouth like a baby robin and remove the potato from the spoon with my tongue and upper lip. I like mashed potatoes with gravy. She continues to feed me until the food is gone, ignoring her tray. She is a nice lady.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“My name’s Alice,” the young woman replies. She again wipes my face with a napkin. “Do you want to go for a walk?” I nod my head in the affirmative.
The young lady takes the rolls from the two trays and places them in her pocket. Then she releases the brakes on the wheelchair and pushes me back to the sidewalk. “We can walk over to the pond and feed the ducks.”
The duck pond is at the edge of the nursing home property. It is only a small stream that has been dammed up to form a half-acre pond, but the ducks don’t seem to care. About ten ducks are floating on the pond while another five or six are sitting on the grass at the edge of the pond. The young lady pushes my wheelchair close to the water’s edge where a park bench overlooks the pond. She sits down beside me on the bench.
“Do you remember how to feed the ducks?” she asks. She breaks apart one of the rolls and hands a fragment to me. The ducks seem to understand and immediately gather at my feet. A mother duck and eight small ducklings wait patiently farther back.
“Throw them the bread,” my lady friend tells me. I throw the piece of bread, and it falls not far from my feet. The ducks converge upon it in a flurry of feathers. She gives me another piece of bread. The ducks are now quacking noisily in anticipation. I throw out the bread, and they again fight over the small morsel. I feel sad that the young ducklings don’t catch any of the bread. The third piece I throw directly to them, and one of the ducklings grabs the bread. He is immediately chased by his siblings. It makes me smile. I can’t remember when I had such fun.
The young woman is laughing at me or maybe she is laughing at the ducklings. I’m not sure which. I like laughter. I’m glad she came to visit.
“You’re a nice lady,” I tell her. “If I ever have a daughter, I hope she’s just like you.”
The young woman smiles, but it is a forced smile. Her dark brown eyes—the ones I had found so filled with joy—slowly well up with water until a solitary tear cascades over her left check. She makes no attempt to wipe it away.
“Why are you crying?” I ask.
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