little stronger, I think I’ll trim those conifers,” he says, nonchalantly, causing Sandy and me both to turn our heads to the overgrown row of evergreens at the bottom of the garden.
“We could always arrange for someone to come in and cut them for us,” I suggest.
My father looks at me, his face is taut and I know what’s coming, what comes every time. I’ve tried avoiding his questions and I’ve tried lying to him but he spent too long working in the medical field to be fooled. Each time his moment of realisation comes, it cuts through me in the way he would take a scalpel to his patients, slowly breaking my skin, cutting deeper as it moves.
“What’s wrong with me?” he asks.
A deep breath fills my lungs but doesn’t give me the strength I need. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Dad, you just forget sometimes, that’s all.”
“I forget?” he asks.
The too familiar sense of confusion lingers in his words. His scalpel cuts deeper, a laceration so deep it’ll never heal.
“What do I forget? How often do I forget?”
No matter how many times we have this conversation, it never gets easier and I never get any better at dealing with it.
“Sometimes you forget people.”
“Do I forget you?” he asks, his eyes glazing over, leaving him seeing the world through frosted panes.
“Yes.”
“What is it, Scarlett? What’s wrong with me?”
When my response doesn’t come, he asks again, demanding an answer.
“You have Alzheimer’s.” I say it quickly, swatting away the tears that escape from my eyes. I never used to cry.
As he absorbs my words, silent tears slip from his soft blue eyes. He grabs one of my hands from my lap and shuffles on the bench to face me.
“I’m sorry, my Scarlett. I’m so very sorry.” He’s weeping.
“Stop it,” I say, taking his wet cheeks in my hands. “It’s okay, you’re fine right now, you’re here, let’s enjoy our day.”
He closes his eyes and leans into my palm. “You’re a good girl. In case I forget to tell you, thank you for being here with me. Today. Always. You mean everything to me, you always have and even if I forget to say it, you must remember that deep, deep in my heart and in the depths of my old, broken mind, I love you. I love you now, forever and always. I’ve loved you more than life itself since the first day I held you in my arms and I will never stop loving you, my beautiful baby girl.”
I throw my arms around his neck and we sob together, holding one another, rocking gently. His embrace is familiar and warm.
“I love you too, Dad. Please never forget that.”
Sandy makes tea and later sandwiches and cakes, which we eat in the garden. Despite the air dropping cool, my father is reluctant to go inside, preferring to place a checkered blanket over his legs. We pass the afternoon easily, reminiscing about times we all remember. My father watches Sandy and me play cards and attempts to join in when I let him see my hand. To my amazement, he remembers the rules of the card games we play, although he doesn’t have the energy to play himself.
In the late afternoon, his blinks becomes longer and though he forces his eyes back open, they seem to weigh more each time he tries. I don’t want him to sleep just as much as he wants to fight against it. We both know the world could be a very different place when he wakes.
Eventually, Sandy suggests that we move the card games into the bedroom where my father can rest as he watches us play. The move upstairs is more difficult now, my father’s weary body feeling much heavier than it did this morning. I’m grateful to be here to help him get ready for bed but as he huffs and pants with each small effort, he avoids meeting my eye. I can tell that it hurts his pride to have me help. When it comes to changing his trousers and pants, I make an excuse to leave the room. He visibly relaxes and Sandy sets about helping him.
Once we’ve settled him into bed, my father asks if I could
“We could always arrange for someone to come in and cut them for us,” I suggest.
My father looks at me, his face is taut and I know what’s coming, what comes every time. I’ve tried avoiding his questions and I’ve tried lying to him but he spent too long working in the medical field to be fooled. Each time his moment of realisation comes, it cuts through me in the way he would take a scalpel to his patients, slowly breaking my skin, cutting deeper as it moves.
“What’s wrong with me?” he asks.
A deep breath fills my lungs but doesn’t give me the strength I need. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Dad, you just forget sometimes, that’s all.”
“I forget?” he asks.
The too familiar sense of confusion lingers in his words. His scalpel cuts deeper, a laceration so deep it’ll never heal.
“What do I forget? How often do I forget?”
No matter how many times we have this conversation, it never gets easier and I never get any better at dealing with it.
“Sometimes you forget people.”
“Do I forget you?” he asks, his eyes glazing over, leaving him seeing the world through frosted panes.
“Yes.”
“What is it, Scarlett? What’s wrong with me?”
When my response doesn’t come, he asks again, demanding an answer.
“You have Alzheimer’s.” I say it quickly, swatting away the tears that escape from my eyes. I never used to cry.
As he absorbs my words, silent tears slip from his soft blue eyes. He grabs one of my hands from my lap and shuffles on the bench to face me.
“I’m sorry, my Scarlett. I’m so very sorry.” He’s weeping.
“Stop it,” I say, taking his wet cheeks in my hands. “It’s okay, you’re fine right now, you’re here, let’s enjoy our day.”
He closes his eyes and leans into my palm. “You’re a good girl. In case I forget to tell you, thank you for being here with me. Today. Always. You mean everything to me, you always have and even if I forget to say it, you must remember that deep, deep in my heart and in the depths of my old, broken mind, I love you. I love you now, forever and always. I’ve loved you more than life itself since the first day I held you in my arms and I will never stop loving you, my beautiful baby girl.”
I throw my arms around his neck and we sob together, holding one another, rocking gently. His embrace is familiar and warm.
“I love you too, Dad. Please never forget that.”
Sandy makes tea and later sandwiches and cakes, which we eat in the garden. Despite the air dropping cool, my father is reluctant to go inside, preferring to place a checkered blanket over his legs. We pass the afternoon easily, reminiscing about times we all remember. My father watches Sandy and me play cards and attempts to join in when I let him see my hand. To my amazement, he remembers the rules of the card games we play, although he doesn’t have the energy to play himself.
In the late afternoon, his blinks becomes longer and though he forces his eyes back open, they seem to weigh more each time he tries. I don’t want him to sleep just as much as he wants to fight against it. We both know the world could be a very different place when he wakes.
Eventually, Sandy suggests that we move the card games into the bedroom where my father can rest as he watches us play. The move upstairs is more difficult now, my father’s weary body feeling much heavier than it did this morning. I’m grateful to be here to help him get ready for bed but as he huffs and pants with each small effort, he avoids meeting my eye. I can tell that it hurts his pride to have me help. When it comes to changing his trousers and pants, I make an excuse to leave the room. He visibly relaxes and Sandy sets about helping him.
Once we’ve settled him into bed, my father asks if I could
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