“I wish there was a treasure hunt to find his buried memories“
“Let’s try your first smoothie concoction Dad!” says our daughter.
The prior twenty minutes she carefully explained and demonstrated how to use the smoothie blender, explaining in great detail multiple times the order for layering the ingredients.
The three of us are dancing the familiar ballet of multiple adults creating in a kitchen designed for a single chef. The scent of bacon cooking in the microwave overpowers every other smell as I put together a simple potato soup. My partner of more than thirty years is looking for two glasses to share a sample of his first smoothie with our daughter.
From my end of the galley, I watch him reach for the handle of the closest cupboard. Time pauses, there are no glasses in there, that cupboard houses the plates and bowls. The snick of the magnet catch on the cupboard door ends the pause. He grasps the nob of the next cupboard and carefully opens it. He’s on a hunt now. Cupboard number two contains wine glasses and an array of medicine bottles, the medications his body depends upon. Over his shoulder he glances at our daughter for reassurance. He closes door two carefully until the magnet latches. Very slowly he grasps the third door, the home of the treasure he seeks. The shelves where glasses and mugs have been stacked since the time she learned how to walk. He pulls out a single mug.
Our daughter takes the old mug from his hand and turns it over. “This one’s a little dusty, Dad.” She sets the mug in the sink and reaches into the cupboard retrieving two glasses. She pours a small amount of smoothie into each glass and hands him one. “What do you think?” she asks as he takes his first sip.
A smile lights his face. “It’s good. But I don’t need a smoothie now, I had one earlier and your mom’s making dinner.”
She grabs a plastic cup from the top shelf. “I’ll take it home with me. The smoothie will go well with the salad I’m having for dinner.” She pours the rest of his smoothie plus what is left in her glass into the plastic cup.
A frown mars his face. “Don’t you need a lid in the car? Won’t it spill?”
“It’s only half full. It should be okay,” she answers. “Now for the fun part, we clean up.” She gathers the pieces of the blender, starts rinsing them in hot water and stacking them on the drying rack. “We have to wash it by hand, Dad. No blender parts in the dishwasher.” She dries her hands, reaches for her father and gives him a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow, early.”
I glance at her face and follow her to the front door. A silent tear is slipping down her cheek. I pull her into my arms for a hug. “Tough day, huh?”
“He couldn’t find the glasses. He forgot what he was looking for in the few minutes it took to open the cupboards,” she answers with concern in her eyes.
“It was scary. First time he’s forgotten what’s in the cupboards. He’s tired and the end of the day is never his best time. Tomorrow will be better.” I reassure her. I give her another hug; remind her I love her and appreciate everything she does. She climbs in the car and drives away.
In the kitchen I finish making soup and ladle it into bowls. He grabs forks from the drawer and I ask him to get spoons too.
He gazes into my eyes when we sit down. “Where’s the smoothie I made?” he asks.
“Your assistant smoothie maker took it home. You had a smoothie today and she doesn’t have someone at home making her dinner like you do.”
“Good. I don’t need another smoothie with my soup.” He smiles and a twinkle appears in his blue eyes. “It was a good one, though.”
For thirty years the same cupboards in our tiny kitchen have housed the same items, plates and bowls together, wine glasses in the next cupboard, glasses and mugs next. Tonight, the whereabouts of familiar objects escaped him. I noticed the other night he opens all the cupboards before he starts emptying the dishwasher. Now I know why. As the disease steals his memories he compensates; notes in his pockets and on the white board, opening all the cupboards before emptying the dishwasher. We’ve dropped from our vocabulary the phrase “Don’t you remember?” He doesn’t. When he runs into difficulty finding something, like the glasses, we rarely interfere in the hunt. Independence is a fragile thing when memories slip away.
When things go missing, I conduct a treasure hunt of my own. I am grateful for my tiny kitchen. There are limited possibilities, a few drawers and cupboards. Losing things is very unimportant and often easily solved. I wish there was a treasure hunt to find his buried memories. Each small loss of who he was is painful. We’ve learned there is no easy solution. All I can do is accompany him on the quest, support him and be grateful every day for our daughter who voluntarily sails the uncharted seas of time with us.
He’s standing at the counter, shoulders hunched, eyes down, fingers fidgeting as they clasp a favorite bowl.
“Looks like you’re planning cereal for breakfast this morning.” I comment as I reach for a coffee mug.
He glances my way and down again. “I can’t remember what to do next,” he mumbles.
“I’ve a new box of Rice Chex. You haven’t had that in a while. Shall I get it?” I avoid addressing his pause in memory of what to do next. That’s how I see them. Little pauses in his brain’s process when something familiar is suddenly unfamiliar. I set the empty mug down and slip around the corner to the pantry to retrieve the cereal. When I am back in his sight, he watches me open the box, slit the inner bag and hand him the cereal.
He takes the box and pours a serving in the bowl. His fingers are steady, his head up, shoulders back. The pause is over for now.
“I bought milk yesterday, it should be in the door.”
He folds the box liner down to seal it, closes the box, opens the cupboard and puts the cereal on the shelf with the other boxes. He grabs the milk, pours exactly the right amount into the cereal.
A moment later he’s settled at the counter, eating cereal, pills at the ready, and reading the paper. Just like other mornings. He reads me a snippet reporting on some odd thing a celebrity has done. We smile at each other in agreement at the antics of adults who should know better. For a moment the dining table in the kitchen isn’t empty but instead holds two of my favorite people, my partner and our daughter when she was about four.
We had a routine. I woke her up and helped her dress. He made her breakfast and drove her to preschool while I traveled to work. In my mind I’m standing in the kitchen, my hand on a biscuit he’s left on a napkin for my to-go breakfast. He’s telling her the funny story about his first effort making refrigerator biscuits. He tried to open the package with a can opener. Though she’s heard the story before and so have I, we can’t help laughing at his retelling. We picture his fingers stuck in the top of the biscuit package as he peels the gooey dough from a small opening.
I blink and time returns to today. The giggling four-year-old is grown, living a few miles away. The storyteller who laughed at his ignorance about refrigerator biscuits this morning could not remember what came next. I remember. I remember especially the laughter and the loving care he showered on our daughter.
He catches my eye as I stir my coffee. “Thanks for the cereal change. I was bored with the others.”
“I’m glad we had something new in the pantry.” I am glad. Glad the pause in knowing what came next was brief and easily fixed with cues. Glad he has a brain full of odd facts and after thirty-five years can still surprise me with something I did not know. Glad for his company on my life’s journey.
The hammer makes a satisfying whack when it slaps against the steele post. One more solid hit and it will be planted far enough into the soft earth. I glance over at the straight line of the fence I’ve assembled so far and see my partner’s hands figiting on the white rope I’m using as a guide to a straight line. I set the hammer aside and move beside him. “Are you feeling better?” I ask.
“Move this up,” he tussels with the knot. “It will give you a better line and be out of your way.” He tugs on the line which pulls up the stake at the other end and drops the rope to the ground. His hands drop. “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” he mumbles and bends at the waist as though in pain.
“No worries. You’re probably right I’ll attach both ends at the top,” I answer.
He shuffles back onto the flagstone sidewalk he built so many years ago. I watch his careful step onto the patio and then over the threshold into the house. Today’s a bad day.
I attach the rope at the top as he suggested and redo the other end. Now the rope looks straighter and is out of my way. He was right.
I duck my head and slip under the orange tree on my way back to the post I’m planting. Water drips from the tree’s thick canopy of leaves and slides down my back.
The all day rain left the ground soft, even the clay gave way. As I pushed the last section of fencing into the soggy earth, a wet branch breaks from above soaking my shirt. Warm water, summer rain in Arizona. The high today is 80 degrees. A far cry from the low hundreds more typical of September and a welcome relief from the record heat of a few weeks ago.
My face wet from the odd summer rain and tears, I glance at our orange tree with it’s bright green leaves, reminded of a the winter it wore a crown.
When my partner and I moved into the house it was our first experience owning a fruit tree. We were crazy about a plant that provided shade, flowers, and fruit depending upon the season. We were determined to give our lovely tree the very best care.
One Saturday morning we woke to an announcement in the newspaper – Unseasonable cold snap on the way. Cover you plants. – Did that mean little plants? Big plants? Did that include trees?
The article was vague and brief. (This was prior to the internet’s easy access to mountains of information.) We could assume the tree was not included since the article did not say “fruit trees” and do nothing. But what if we were wrong and something happened to our wonderful tree? Something we could have prevented?
We chose to take action. Sheets were commandeered from the linen closet, the ladder pulled from the garage and we went to work. How do you cover a tree that is almost 10 feet high with a canopy of 14 feet across? With laughter, ladders, and conflicting advice from a spouse and six year old daughter, the tree stands tall with it’s new armor for protection.
A picture of our work rests inside an old photo album. In the photo my husband and daughter stand beside the orange tree. Both humans wear giant smiles. The tree wears a pastel sheet as it’s crown.
Over time, we learned that a cold snap would not likely impact a tree as old and established as ours. Putting a sheet on top wasn’t necessary.
Today, while I finish the last piece of the garden fence and clean up the mess I made, my daughter is grown and away visiting a friend in another state and my partner is asleep. He has days of many naps and days of none. The disease that is trying to steal him from us can’t win as long as I hold on to the memories and the time the orange tree wore a sheet instead of a crown.
The hammer makes a satisfying whack when it slaps against the steele post. One more solid hit and it will be planted far enough into the soft earth. I glance over at the straight line of the fence I’ve assembled so far and see my partner’s hands figiting on the white rope I’m using as a guide to a straight line. I set the hammer aside and move beside him. “Are you feeling better?” I ask.