“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.