red eyes and quivering jaw and know I have forgotten all that was important tome? I could not and neither can she, for when this odyssey began, this is how Ibegan. Her life, her marriage, her children. Her friends and her work. Questions andanswers in the game show format of This Is Your Life.
The days were hard on both of us. I was an encyclopedia, an object without feeling,of the whos, whats and wheres'in her life, when in reality it is the whys, the things Idid not know and could not answer, that make it all worthwhile. She would stare atpictures of forgotten offspring, hold paintbrushes that inspired nothing, and readlove letters that brought back no joy. She would weaken over the hours, growingpaler, becoming bitter, and ending the day worse than when it began. Our days werelost, and so was she. And selfishly, so was I.
So I changed. I became Magellan or Columbus, an explorer in the mysteries of themind, and I learned, bumbling and slow, but learning nonetheless what had to .bedone. And I learned what is obvious to a child. That life is simply a collectionof little lives, each lived one day at a time. That each day should be spent findingbeauty in flowers and poetry and talking to animals. That a day spent with dreamingand sunsets and refreshing breezes cannot be bettered. But most of all, I learned thatlife is about sitting on benches next to ancient creeks with my hand on her knee andsometimes, on good days, for falling in love.
"What are you thinking?" she asks.
It is now dusk. We have left our bench and are shuffling along lighted paths thatwind their way around this complex. She is holding my arm, and I am her escort. Itis her idea to do this. Perhaps she is charmed by me. Perhaps she wants to keep mefrom falling. Either way, I am smiling to myself.
"I'm thinking about you."
She makes no response to this except to squeeze my arm, and I can tell she likeswhat I said. Our life together has enabled me to see the clues, even if she doesnot know them herself. I go on:
"I know you can't remember who you are, but I can, and I find that when I look at you,it makes me feel good."
She taps my arm and smiles. "You're a kind man with a loving heart. I hope I enjoyedyou as much before as I do now."
We walk some more. Finally she says, "I have
to tell you something." "Go ahead."
"I think I have an admirer."
"An admirer?"
"I see."
"You don't believe me?" "I believe you." "You should." "Why?" "BecauseI think it is you."
I think about this as we walk in silence, holding each other, past the rooms, pastthe courtyard. We come to the garden, mainly wildflowers, and I stop her. I pick abundle‐‐red, pink, yellow, violet. I give them to her, and she brings them to hernose. She smells them with eyes closed and she whispers, "They're. beautiful."
We resume our walk, me in one hand, the flowers in another. People watch us,for we are a walking miracle, or so I am told. It is true in a way, though most timesI do not feel lucky.
"You think it's me?" I finally ask. "Yes." "Why?"
"Because I have found what you have hidden." "What?"
"This," she says, handing a small slip of paper to me. "I found it under my pillow."
I read it, and it says:
The body slows with mortal ache, yet my promise remains true at the closing of ourdays, A tender touch that ends with a kiss will awaken love in joyous ways. "Are theremore?" I ask.
"I found this in the pocket of my coat." Our souls were one, if youmust know and never shall they be apart; With splendid dawn,your face aglow I reach for you and find my heart. "I see," and thatis all I say.
We walk as the sun sinks lower in the sky. In time, silver twilight is the only remainderof the day, and still we talk of the poetry. She is enthralled by the romance. By thetime we reach the doorway, I am tired. She knows this, so she stops me with her handand makes me face her. I do and I realize how hunched over I have become. She and Iare now level. Sometimes I am glad she doesn't know how much I have changed.
She turns to me and stares for a long time.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"I don't want to forget you or this day, and I'm trying to keep your memory alive."
Will it work this time? I wonder, then know it will not. It can't. I do not tell her mythoughts, though. I smile instead because her words are sweet. "Thank you," Isay.
"I mean it. I don't want to forget you again. You're very special to me. I don't knowwhat I would have done without you today."
My throat closes a little. There is emotion behind her words, the emotions I feelwhenever I think of her. I know this is why I live, and I love her dearly at thismoment. How I wish I were strong enough to carry her in my arms to paradise.
"Don't try to say anything," she tells me. "Let's just feel the moment." AndI do, and I feel heaven.
Her disease is worse now than it was in the beginning, though Allie is different frommost. There are three others with the disease here, and these three are the sum ofmy practical experience with it. They, unlike Allie, are in the most advanced stages ofAlzheimer's and are almost completely lost. They wake up hallucinating andconfused. They repeat themselves over and over. Two of the three can't feedthemselves and will die soon. The third has a tendency to wander and get lost. Shewas found once in a stranger's car a quarter mile away. Since then she has beenstrapped to the bed. All can be very bitter at times, and at other times they can belike lost children, sad and alone. Seldom do they recognize the staff or people wholove them. It is a tryingdisease, and this is why it is hard for their children and mineto visit.
Allie, of course, has her own problems, too, problems that will probably grow worseover time. She is terribly afraid in the mornings and cries inconsolably. She sees tinypeople, like gnomes, I think, watching her, and she screams at them to get away.
She bathes willingly but will not eat regularly. She is thin now, much too thin, inmy opinion, and on good days I do my best to fatten her up.
But this is where the similarity ends. This is why Allie is considered a miracle, becausesometimes, just sometimes, after I read to her, her condition isn't so bad. There is noexplanation for this. "It's impossible," the doctors say. "She must not haveAlzheimer's." But she does. On most days and every morning there can be no doubt.
On this there is agreement .But why, then, is her condition different? Why does shesometimes change after I read? I tell the doctors the reason‐‐I know it in my heart,but I am not believed. Instead they look to science. Four times specialists havetraveled from Chapel Hill to find the answer. Four times they have left withoutunderstanding. I tell them,
"You can't possibly understand it if you use only your training and your books," butthey shake their heads and answer: "Alzheimer's does not work like this. With her
condition, it's just not possible to have a conversation or improve as the day goes on.
Ever."
But she does. Not every day, not most of the time, and definitely less than she usedto. But sometimes. And all that is gone on these days is her memory, as if she hasamnesia. But her emotions are normal, her thoughts are normal. And these are thedays that I know I am doing right.
