It's enough

“What did you do to me? WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?” Shrieks Beatrice at the sight of her own reflection, before bolting from the bathroom in terror. With frantic hands she desperately wrenches the handle of the front door, fear building in her eyes as she realises she cannot escape. I calmly step towards her, slowly, her body cowering in the foetal position, staring at me wide eyed - the way a gazelle might look at a lion seconds before it pounced.

“Get off me! Let go, let go!” She screams, high pitched and shrill, as I pulled her into my arms. I had hoped to have had a little longer enjoying each other’s company before the evening turned as it always did, but after countless nights like this, I’d learned to accept it.

“Shhhhh. It’s okay” I soothed, as she sobbed into my chest. With a wry smile, I think back to how the evening had so pleasantly begun.

***

Grinning into the bathroom mirror, I admired my reflection. I might be 72 years old, but thank goodness I still have my hair! Grey flashes might run through it, but I could definitely pass for a younger man – at least that’s what I tell myself. My best corduroy suit, brown to match my eyes, with cream shirt and royal blue tie – I feel like I’m 20 again. Fifty years I’ve had this tie. My lucky tie. My first date tie. I shouldn’t be so nervous, but I want so much for this to go well. Beatrice is the prettiest woman in the world, and she deserves the best.

Leaving the bathroom, return to the living room, where my Bea awaits me. Dressed in a beautiful floor length cream summer dress, emblazoned with blue and red hummingbirds, Bea is quite a picture. Captivated by her curly blonde locks, I stop and stare just for a minute to long – enthralled by her beauty. She turns her head to meet my gaze, as if she can feel me watching her, and I blush as I realise she has caught me.

“Apologies Bea, I’m a little nervous” I confess, pouring her a glass of merlot. She grins. Her porcelain cheeks faintly blush pink, and her scarlet lips frame a smile that could outshine the morning sunrise, positively beaming.

“How did you know Merlot was my favourite?” She asks, swirling the glass and inhaling deeply to savour the fruity bouquet, before taking a delicate sip.

“Gosh it’s delicious!”

I return a shy smile. Why am I so speechless in her presence, how can such a delicate creature weaken my knees and render me speechless with one look?

“Only the best for you my dear. I hope you like roast lamb” I reply with a cheeky wink, before heading to the kitchen to take it from the oven and let it rest.

“Well now you must be a psychic Donald because roast lamb is my favourite too! Have you been talking to my friends? Or just a lucky guess?”

“Seems like we’re very well suited. Maybe we’re destined to be together Bea, it’s a sign.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

She giggles, rolling her eyes at me before winking back. I know she’s teasing me, but I look deep into those striking blue eyes, take both her hands and whisper delicately:

“I only have eyes for you, my love”, causing her to blush more deeply. Her little ears bloom crimson, like they always do when she gets shy. It’s something I’ve always inexplicably loved about her; perhaps it’s knowing that I have such an effect on her that brings me joy.

“So cheeky, it’s only our first date!”

She mocks shock, but her wicked smile tells me she enjoys our little moments, flirting they call it these days. I must confess, my heart is somehow a paradox around her, foxtrotting in my chest and yet simultaneously soothed by her lullaby voice.

After plating up the food as delicately as I can, trying make it “presentable” as they say on the cooking shows, I escort Bea to the dining room. I pull out her chair for her, kissing her gently on the cheek as I do so. She shyly looks down into her lap, giggling gently the way a school girl would when embarrassed, before returning to gaze deeply into my eyes.

Bewitched by the enchanting goddess before me, I can’t help but think back with fondness to the first time we danced together, back in our youth. Bea even more of a stunner when she was aged 19, with her golden hair delicately styled into a curly up-do, and known for her handsewn pastel dresses that turned heads of many a young man. My best friend John was courting Bea’s sister Doreen, and on that particular night he took her to the pictures, with Bea and I, and a few mutual friends were acting as chaperones.

To this day I cannot remember what we watched the night, as that first time I saw Beatrice I could not look away - drawn to her perfect lips, her bright eyes, and melodic voice that sang every word. Her pastel blue dress revealing her miniature waist, dancing across her knees to show her slender calves. She approached me with grace and purpose, introducing herself taking my arm, wordlessly asking me to escort her to her seat.

After the pictures, we went out dancing. All the boys were vying for Bea’s attention, she was the belle of the ball! Perhaps it was the safety of dancing with someone from the group, or maybe she saw something in me that I could not, but for some reason she chose me to be her dancing partner! Now I was no dancer, but my two left feet took up the challenge that day! Fifty years later, here we are - laughing and chatting and enjoying each other’s company. Wine flowing and empty plates, I hope she is enjoying this as much as I am.

“Flowers for my flower.” From the green vase on the table acting as a centre piece, I tuck a daffodil into her golden hair.

“Daffodils … how did you know? They’re…”

“your favourite. Bea you deserve only the very best, a man who provides you with everything and loves you unconditionally. I will always love you my dear, and care for you no matter what happens. You’re the one Bea, my only one.”

Bea is silent for a minute, and I worry I have come on too strong. I’d forgotten it was a first date and foolishly poured my heart out to her. Despite Bea’s cheeky personality, at her core she’s a delicate soul, my little field mouse. I think she could see from my face that I had not meant to blurt out everything out quite so unreservedly. But then the most magical thing in the world happened.

“I love you too Donald.”

Five words. Five wonderful, indescribably powerful, life-changing words. My soul set alight, burning a passionate fire within my heart, emblazoned with the name Beatrice. She loves me!

I wipe a tear from my eye, I’m a silly sod I know, but I can’t help but shed a couple of tears at the overwhelming joy of her love. Tenderly I kiss her ruby lips, overcome with emotion. Our passion gets the better of us, as my elbow grazes Bea’s glass of merlot, splashing the dark contents to the floor, where a burgundy puddle begins to form.

“Excuse me my darling, I’ll only be a minute. At least the glass didn’t smash!”.

Dashing to the kitchen, I hastily search for a tea towel to mop up the spillage, not daring to leave Bea alone for too long. We don’t have much time, and I want every minute to be perfect for her.

Returning to the dining room, I realise I am too late – her chair is empty. I rush to the bathroom and hear Bea scream out in shock.

“What did you do to me? WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?” Shrieks Beatrice at the sight of her own reflection, before bolting from the bathroom in terror. With frantic hands she desperately wrenches the handle of the front door, fear building in her eyes as she realises she cannot escape. I calmly step towards her, slowly, her body cowering in the foetal position, staring at me wide eyed - the way a gazelle might look at a lion seconds before it pounced.

“Get off me! Let go, let go!” She screams, high pitched and shrill, as I pulled her into my arms. I had hoped to have had a little longer enjoying each other’s company before the evening turned as it always did, but after countless nights like this, I’d learned to accept it.

“Shhhhh. It’s okay” I soothed, as she sobbed into my chest.

“I saw the mirror Donald! THE MIRROR! I don’t understand, I don’t understand” She kept repeating. My poor girl, my gorgeous, beautiful girl. It never gets any easier, I feel like I’m breaking her heart every time I tell her, but she’s my Bea, my only love, and I would do anything for her.

“Bea sweetie, it’s okay, it’s okay. Do you remember the first time you and I danced together? When we chaperoned John and Doreen’s first date?”

Her sobs falter slightly, and she looks up at me, her fear melting and tears subsiding. She half giggles, drying her eyes.

“What do mean remember? It was only last week, silly! We danced the night away, and you were so charming and lovely that I agreed to see you tonight.”

Now it was time for me to weep, but I will not surrender to the tears. I must be strong once more. Dementia is a cruel disease. It took my Bea from me, our marriage, our children, our grandchildren – she doesn’t remember. Each morning when she wakes up, she can’t remember the day before. She can’t even recognise her own reflection in the mirror – doesn’t realise how much time has passed. The little old lady staring back at her is a stranger, as in her head she’s 20 again and right back at the start of it all, just after we first met.

I couldn’t cope when she was first diagnosed, I felt like my world was being ripped away from me, stolen by an entity I could not seek revenge from. Anger coursed through me like adrenaline, my only shield to the unbearable pain underneath I could not allow myself to succumb to. Anger was easier, cursing every god, cursing the world that I should be punished in such a cruel way, despite living an honest and good life. As my fury died, so did my passion. I gave up on life, becoming a recluse as I sunk deeper into depression – what was the point of doing anything, knowing that life would only get worse? How could I go on living this way?

But as Bea got more and more unwell, I realised this wasn’t about me, it was about her. I told her I would always love and care for her, treat her how she deserved and be there for her no matter what. We promised each other on our wedding day to support each other in sickness and in health, and I’ve always kept my promises to Bea. Always.

I cling to the only silver lining I have, which is that Bea can still remember the first time we met. Stuck in a snapshot of time just days after we danced together, she’s forever a 19-year-old awaiting me to take her on our first date. I count myself lucky that I can take Bea on a first date every day, spoil her, make her smile, and keep her happy. She might not remember all we had, but she still tells me she loves me, and each time it’s like it’s the first time she’s said it to me. We can fall in love with each other every day, and there’s something quite special about that.

I look down at my poor beloved, now asleep in my arms, and gently kiss her forehead. She’s still my Bea, and I’m still her Donald. It might not be much of the life we shared together, but it’s enough.