Silent Conversation

She looked at his sweet, old face as he lay in the bed, their bed. Her hands went over to tuck the covers around his shoulders so he wouldn't get cold. This bedroom had known them for fifty years. She was going to paint the room before the diagnosis. Dementia. Why not just say sorry you will melt away until you no longer exist? Every part of you that defines you, will be systematically stripped away until the end. Loosing you is hard, my love, but loosing you bit by bit is the worst type of horror imaginable.

His eyes popped open, and he looked at her and smiled. The same smile she remembered. The same smile that she remembered from the first day. He looked on, there were no more words left to speak.

He had lost that ability months ago. But he still had that smile. And the kind, blue eyes. Somethings fade with old age, like a man's hair, his sense of humor but usually not everything. It's like a robber had come into his brain and plucked out random pieces of his personality. Identity theft on an internal organ. Let's take some reasoning here and a little memory there. Why not cut some chunks out of his sense of balance and leave him not knowing where he is? How can he be here and not be here?

She reached for his hand. He liked that. It was a connection that he could feel. Holding hands was basic even a baby understood a physical touch. This was a continual nightmare that had to be lived. The only good part was that he was spared the knowledge. A small consolation.

He ate sparingly this morning like usual. The disease had effected his swallowing reflex. The meal had to be emulsified so that he wouldn't choke. Eating was always difficult. She didn't want to loose him but she knew that keeping him in this condition seemed worse than the loss.

She made the bed by rolling him to one-side, pulling the sheets to the middle and rolling him over again to pull the sheets to the other side of the bed. He had become so thin. It was routine. She was grateful for the mundane chores. It kept her mind off the present because there was no future.

I wonder if he remembers when we met. The silly first phone call. Our first date. The time he took me to that bed and breakfast in Oregon. Is it still sitting in his brain, hidden? Can he access some thoughts? Or does he even know he exists? I have your hand in mine. I've got you. I'm here. My love doesn't fade. She squeezed his hand.

Behind his eyes and deep within his heart, so deep that only he could tell. He thought, now, that's my woman, isn't she beautiful. It was there for only a second. It bounced around in a void that was becoming emptier with every day. He sometimes remembered that he couldn't remember. Then that memory slipped away. What was her name?