Bald-headed
Ch. 32

He would forget where he put the key, but who wouldn't do that?

He will forget the name of the neighbor, but not someone we know well or with whom we socialize. Sometimes he would write the wrong year when he took out a note on an important paper, but again I took it as a simple mistake that one makes when thinking about something else.

It was only after more obvious events occurred that I began to suspect the worst. Ironing in the fridge, clothes in the dishwasher, books in the oven. Other things too.

But the day I found him in the car three blocks away, pensive and moody on the wheel because he couldn't find his way home was the first day I started to really worry. And she was scared too, because when I knocked on her window, she turned to me and said, "Oh my God, what happened to me? Please help me." My stomach is wrapped around me, but I don't dare to think about the worst.

A week later the doctor met him and began a series of tests. I didn't understand it then and I don't understand it now, but I guess it's because I was afraid to know it.

He spent almost an hour with dr. Frandi and the doctor returned the next day.

It was the longest day I ever spent. I looked through magazines I could not read and played games I had no idea about. Finally he called us both to his practice and sat us down. He held my arm confidently, but I clearly remembered that my own hand was trembling.

"I'm so sorry to have to say this to you" dr. Frandi begins, "but you seem to be in the early stages of Alzheimer's disease..."

My mind went blank, and all I could think about was the light shining above our heads. Those words echoed in my head, the early stages of Alzheimer's. . .

My world was swirling, and I felt his grip on my arm getting tighter and tighter. He whispered, almost to himself. "Birunda... Beeflakes..."

And when the tears start to fall, the word comes back to me...

It is a barren, empty and lifeless disease like a desert. It is a thief of heart and soul and memories. I didn't know what to say to her, I started crying in her chest, so she just hugged me and shook her body back and forth.

The doctor was grim. He's a good guy, and it's hard for him. He was younger than my youngest son, and I felt my age before him. My mind was confused, my love was shaking, and the only thing I could think of was, no one who drowned could tell which drops of water would make his last breath stop.

The words of a wise poet, but they do not make me comfortable. I don't know what it means or why I think of them.

We swayed to and fro, and Sugi, my dream, my eternal harbor, told her that I was sorry. He knew there was nothing to forgive, and he whispered in my ear.

"Everything will be fine" he whispered, but in our hearts, I knew we were harboring fear.

He and I were a pair of empty humans who had nothing to offer, empty like a discarded chimney.

I only remember little by little from dr. Frandie.

There is no way to know how fast it is progressing. . It differs from person to person. ...I wish I knew more. . . .

Some days will be better than others. ... But this will also get worse with the passage of time. . . . I'm sorry to be the one to tell you. . . ."

Forgive me . . .

Forgive me . . .

Forgive us. . .

Everyone is sorry. My children are heartbroken, my friends are afraid of themselves.

I don't remember leaving the doctor's office, and I don't remember driving home. My memories of that day are gone, and in this case my husband and I are the same.

It's been two years now. Since then we have done our best, if possible.

I'm organized, like my character. I made arrangements to leave the house and move here. I rewrote my will and sealed it. I also left special burial instructions, and it was stored on the table, in the bottom drawer. Sugi hasn't seen it yet. When I finished, I started writing. Letters to friends and children. Letters to brothers and sisters and cousins. Letter to the nephew and neighbor. And a letter to Sugi.

I read it sometimes when I was in the appropriate mood, and when I did, I remembered Sugi on a cold rainy winter night, she said, sitting by the campfire with a glass of tea by his side, reading the letters he had written to me on the table for years. I kept it, these letters, and now I still keep it, because he made me promise to do it. He said I'd know what to do with all his letters. He was right, I found I enjoyed reading little by little like I used to.

The writing tickled me, these letters, because as I sifted through them, I realized that romance and passion were possible at any age. I looked at Sugi now and knew I never loved him again, but when I read the letters, I came to understand that I always felt the same way.

I read it last three nights ago, long after I was supposed to be asleep. Almost one hour when I went to the table and found a pile of letters, thick and tall and weathered. I untied the ribbon, which was almost half a century old, and found letters that my mother had long hidden and letters afterward. A letter of a lifetime, a letter declaring his love, a letter from his heart.

I looked at the pile of envelopes with a smile on my face, picked and picked, and finally opened the letter from our first birthday.

I read the quote.

As I look at you now - moving slowly with the new life growing inside you - I hope you know how much you mean to me, and how special this year has been. There is no man more blessed than me, and I love you with all my heart.

I put the sheet aside, sifted through the pile, and found another one, this from a cold night thirty-nine years ago.

Sitting next to you, while our youngest daughter sings at the school festival, I see you and see the pride that only comes to those who feel deep down in their hearts, and I know that no man is luckier than me.