Memories. Tatters.
I lose things a lot. Of course, those who know me know that I keep my room a mess because I don’t know where to put anything and tidying is exhausting. So my keys and cards and glasses and whatever get piled under all the junk and lost. I come by it honestly: my mother loses her things too. She can’t find her keys, or her wallet, or her purse and it’s getting late and we have to go now and “honey, are you alright? Don’t you remember where you left it? This happens a lot” says my step-father.
My mother’s mother died of Alzheimer’s disease, as did my mother’s older sister. And for someone whose life is built on thinking, losing thought is unbearable. If no one you know has died of Alzheimer’s, if you’ve never seen someone’s eyes dim and their mind fade, then go listen to The Caretaker’s Everywhere at the End of Time.
My mother doesn’t want to die of Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t want to lose her mind; she doesn’t want to forget who she is or where she is or what’s happening, because she’s seen it and it scared her. Wait until your mother starts screaming because she’s locked in a box with water pouring from the ceiling and the attendants have to come and help her out of the shower; then tell me my mother’s over-reacting.
On my step-father’s suggestion my mother got Apple’s AirTags (or however they style them; you think I care?) which beep and carry on when you ping them from your phone; the theory is that she’ll be able to find her things when they’re lost. This is classicly my step-father’s style: command and direct; when asked to stop, pout and say “I was only helping”.
So the things came today and my mother asked for my help putting it on her keys. But first she had to find her keys. She told me to keep quiet while she looked; she didn’t want my step-father to know that she couldn’t find them. I asked why, and she said, “I don’t want to be told that I have dementia”.
Edit on 2022-01-30:
When my step-father loses something, he blames my mother. When my mother loses something, my step-father says that she has dimentia. Any time something isn’t where my step-father left it, he angers at my mother and accuses her of moving it or of throwing it away. Whenever she can’t find something, he says to her, “don’t you remember?”. Indeed, any time she doesn’t remember some feature of his life or friends, he acts insulted or surprised. He has never known any of my friends names nor shown any interest in learning them; I don’t know that he knows any of her friends, either. I have never blamed his memory for his not knowing; I blame his indifference.
