Read Coming Together: With Pride Online
Authors: Alessia Brio
Today I lost my love, my life, my hope.
Today I lost my delusions and my precepts.
Today I spoke words that never
should have been voiced
to people who weren't willing to listen
to the emotion behind the words.
Those who were too wrapped up
in their own problems to see my pain.
People who I thought cared and loved me.
Today I saw the truth.
Today I stood alone and learned that all
those who cry, "We love you."
Mean it only when it suits their needs
and their time constraints.
Today I stood and plead with the gods
for mercy on my soul.
Crying out with every fiber of my being
for some reprieve, but none came.
Today I learned.
Today the knowledge came in one fast
overwhelming swoop.
I and I alone, have today.
Although other's travel beside me.
None are truly with me.
And although some will effect me, none
can truly accompany me.
Today I learned.
Through the toughest lessons,
through the smoldering ashes,
through the pain and misery,
I have learned.
I have grown, and I have become
one that is no longer afraid of today.
©
www.kallyjosurbeck.com
"Where is your wife?"
She was lying on top of the blue comforter next to the window, in her cotton pajamas. Her beautiful thick hair, black and streaked with gray, spread out over the pillow. She reached up with her hands, searching.
I wonder if it's the jasmine that brings this out in her,
he asked himself. He sat on the edge of the bed next to where she lay and looked at her despondently. A small electric window fan drew in the cool night air, filled with the scent of the jasmine vines they'd planted together years ago, when the kids were still teenagers. It filled the room with a sweet erotic scent, combined with the fresh, earthy smell of the rain that had just ended. Far away in the kitchen, the radio played a Frank Sinatra song.
"Where is your wife?" She would keep asking until he answered her.
"She's right here, Aimee." He reached over and caressed her hand. "Don't worry so much."
"It's terrible," she said.
"I know."
She tried to sit up, with a trace of fear building in her eyes. He took her hand and gave it a little squeeze. "Everything's fine. Don't worry so much."
She looked at him with a hint of panic now. "Where is your wife?"
"She's right here, Aimee. You're my wife. You know that." He said it evenly and confidently, choosing the tone of his voice with great care. It pleased him to see the fear leave her eyes, and she settled back. "How you doing, honey?"
"It's terrible."
"What's so terrible?"
"Everything," she murmured.
Again, he took her hand; squeezing it to remind her he was there, that she wasn't alone. "Don't worry so much. I'm here. You worry about everything too much."
"Oh."
She looked at him, holding her hand, as if she had just discovered he was there. He felt her return the squeeze and hold it, like a baby holding onto a finger.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"It's alright."
"I'm sorry."
"It's alright." Holding her hand, he waited for her to calm down. When he felt her hand relax, he let go of it and stood. The weariness of the day sank against him, and he felt tired and lonely. The jasmine was undoubtedly getting to him, too.
He stretched and took a quick glance at Aimee. For the moment, she seemed all right. She rolled over to her side and the plastic adult diaper crackled inside her pajama bottoms.
"Now you stay there," he instructed. "Okay? You stay there, okay?"
Obediently, she rolled onto her back and folded her hands on her bosom.
"Now that's my girl, you stay that way. I'll be right back. Okay?"
"Are we in Mobile yet?"
The question stopped him.
Mobile? What, Alabama?
It was a new tangent, one he'd never heard before. He wasn't sure what she needed to hear from him. "Soon."
She smiled and closed her eyes. Evidently, it was the correct answer. He turned away, feeling too pained to look at her. The music filtered into his consciousness:
The way you wear your hat
The way you sip your tea
The memory of all that
No, they can't take that away from me…
Yes, they can
, he thought.
Boy, they sure as hell can
.
He yawned and considered turning off the radio. At least it was company, he decided, and headed for the bathroom instead. Opening the medicine cabinet, he took down his toothbrush and the toothpaste. The bottom shelf was lined with amber bottles, mostly Aimee's medicines. They cost a fortune, and as near as he could tell, they weren't doing shit for her, not any of them. Next to his own was her pink toothbrush and he couldn't remember—damn, he couldn't remember one way or the other. Had he brushed her teeth for her tonight?
This kind of thing always scared him. Soon it'll be me in diapers, he thought. Silently, he recited his Social Security number followed by his cell phone number. A few years ago, when all this was new to him, the doctor had said that usually with Alzheimer's the numbers were forgotten first. Remembering strings of meaningful numbers was his little talisman against Aimee's fate.
He closed the cabinet and squeezed a line of toothpaste onto the brush, checking his teeth in the mirror. They were fairly yellow from the coffee and tea, which he had no intention of giving up. But those were his teeth, by God—every one of them nailed firmly in place until his dying day. No dentures, no bridges. He began to clean his teeth.
"Are we in Atlanta yet?"
His mouth was full of foam, and he ignored her.
They'd be hauling her off to the nursing home soon, and then what? Start over? Were there Internet dating sites for guys his age?
The thought chilled him with guilt, and he threw cold water on his face.
It's not like she's dead, you horny bastard, how can you even think of it?
He thought of her in there, lost in her train ride.
It's not my fault. I have needs, too. I'm still a man. And maybe she really is dead. She died when no one was looking, and it's just her body that hasn't gotten the news. It's not her anymore. The woman I loved, she's gone. Not this big baby she left me with. It's not my fault.
He took some mouthwash, poured it into the cap, and tossed it into his mouth. Bad breath had always been a concern, because his mouth was so dry, but there was no one to care about it anymore. It was mostly genetic, the doctor had said. Can't fix genetics. Genetics are just the cards the universe deals you. Genetics are little time bombs that go off in your head, and there's nothing you can do but watch everything turn to shit. Shit for brains.
A big whoop-de-doo doctor in Time magazine had suggested Alzheimer's was related to stress. It made him want to yell at this guy who knew so damned much: Okay, Doctor Asshole, what stress was my fault? Hadn't I made enough money? Maybe I hadn't spent enough time with her or the kids. No? Maybe I'd been too stressful for her with my little demands and discontents. Maybe if I'd gotten her a goddamn dog with lots of fur to pet. Maybe if the kids hadn't driven us crazy from time to time, dumping the grandkids on us when things got rough, moving in when they couldn't find a job and then moving out and then in again. Maybe I'd secretly wished it on her without knowing, like a silent voodoo curse. Or maybe—just maybe what's the really scariest fucking thing of all—maybe this universe is a big runaway train with winter ice on the tracks and no God or anybody else at the fucking wheel and the most awful shit happens to the very nicest people out there, and maybe… And maybe no one knows what I could have done differently.
He spit out the blue foam and wanted to hammer his head into the mirror glass.
Who knows how any of this shit really works
, he thought.
"Are we in Mobile yet?"
What was it about Mobile tonight?
"No, Aimee, not yet," he called back.
In the kitchen, Buddy Holly was on the box, rocking out about Peggy Sue and singing with that weird hiccup thing he did. They had seen Holly play at their high school auditorium in Duluth, way back in the day. Aimee had been in the drama club and played in
The Glass Menagerie
on the same stage where Holly played later. After that show, Holly and his bunch moved west, working their way toward Moorhead. A couple days later, they were dead. He and Aimee hadn't been a couple then, that came much later—after they met at a class reunion, by which time they'd each scored a divorce.
He put away the toothbrush and the toothpaste and tried to remember again if he'd brushed her damned teeth or not.
She was better off now, he knew, because they were long past the terror. Or she was, anyway. It was worse in the beginning stages, when the episodes of forgetfulness and fugue began, when the long-faced doctors would come around with their goddamned grim looking x-rays, pronouncing the sentence of death, death in slow motion.
He recalled her terror at the realization she would helplessly lose herself. Her wordless rage at God in a restaurant, at seeing an old woman being fed by a health care worker and knowing it would soon be her. The anticipation of having all her life erased.
"Just shoot me, Ron," she whispered to him that night in the dark. "If I get like that, promise me you'll just fucking shoot me."