Forgotten by Jennifer Alexander

“Alzheimer’s Disease” the voice echoed in Peters mind. Millions of thoughts raced through his head. Surely, Peter thought, the neurologist must be wrong.  His mind could not fathom this. Driving home, Isabella and Peter were silent as the shock set in.

Afterwards Peter threw himself instinctively into painting. This was his livelihood, his passion. Realisation took grip, so did his fear that was screaming inside his mind. His paintbrush took control, images of turmoil, torture and pain poured out of him.

Time passed and the realisation dawned that the specialist wasn’t wrong. He awoke one morning to the smell of Isabella cooking. When she was upset, she cooked. It smelt of homemade bread and cookies. She came over and hugged me, visibly upset. They both felt he had failed her last night in their lovemaking. Peter looked at her and whispered, “I’m sorry I’m not the man I once was” She nodded, unable to respond and walked away. It was within a month after that, Isabella left him. She couldn’t cope with his decline. He tried hard not to blame her. He missed her every day. She was part of his whole being, an integral part of his structure. Their marriage was so blessed just because they delighted in each other. He heard later that she remarried. He imagined her making love to someone else, it only added to his pain.

Most of the children were endlessly supportive, but busy with their own lives. They all visited Peter when they could but youngest daughter struggled with his illness, finding it easier to stay away.  Peter imagined her like an ostrich with her head buried in the sand. It was her coping mechanism, he understood. Sometimes to pretend things are not there is an easier option.

As a man that prides himself on self control, Alzheimer’s was his enemy. It left him powerless. Not being able to do the simplest of things was the most frustrating.  Procedural memory they call it, telling the time, tying your shoelaces, answering the telephone. The enemy he faced would take all that and more until it left him a relic, an empty shell of a human being.

The neurologist explained to Peter that because he was younger than most patients, that the disease was moving faster. Alzheimer’s was different for each individual. He told the specialist his wife had left him, trying hard not to be emotional. The neurologist said the disease is often harder on those around him because patients reach a stage where they are not aware. His explanation of the disease was that people with dementia forgot where the car keys were, people with Alzheimer’s forget what the keys are for. That explained why Peter could no longer cook for himself and was struggling to dress. He didn’t drive anymore as he wasn’t confident and kept getting lost.

Michelle was employed to care for Peter. Every day she would come into the house to run errands, cook and clean for him. They would play card games and going for walks. As time marched on she took more responsibility for his care. She was his backbone and a constant. He didn’t always know her name but she was always familiar. Occasionally Peter even made her laugh so hard that she nearly fell off her chair. Michelle made Peter feel good about himself.  It gave him strength to cope with what was his new reality.

Michelle came in the front door one morning to find Peter huddled on lounge room floor shaking from the cold. He looked at her with a tear stained face and whispered “I couldn’t find my way back to bed” After that Peter had to have someone in the house at night.

Peter’s studio was the brightest room in the house. It had windows in every conceivable wall. Early morning was his favorite time to work. He would paint for hours in his studio. However the day came when he couldn’t hold a brush properly or prepare his artists palette with colors. His painting ability had dwindled to that of a kindergarten child. He looked at his canvas and pure rage swept over him. Screaming he picked up the easel, hurled it across the room, hitting the wall and smashing it to bits. He wasn’t just dying, that would be too easy. His enemy was making him suffer first.

The next time Peter saw his specialist he told him of a clinical trial that he was assigning him too. He explained that he may be given the actual drug or a placebo. If he received the drug it would relieve all his symptoms for that day only. For those 24 hours he would have clarity of mind and dexterity.

That news cheered Peter enormously. He could get his memory back, if only for a short time. The very next day he swallowed a tablet and spent the entire day in his studio painting. He felt so good to be in control again and he painted from dawn until dusk.

Peter beamed with pride at his latest portrait when he got up the following day. Enthusiastically he set up the easel with a blank canvas but dropped his brush in the paint, splattering the canvas and room. He’d forgotten that he needed to take a tablet to be able to paint again. Skills that he knew he possessed once were now gone. He felt so frustrated and stupid. Michelle tried to cheer him with a game of cards but realized he no longer had the mental capacity to recognize suits. Making excuses for him, they took a stroll around the block instead. His mood noticeably improved, it had been raining and Peter loved the smell of freshness from the earth. The sun peaked out from the gloomy clouds to greet them and in that moment, life did not seem so bad for him.

Months passed and Peter and Michelle were listening to music together. He glanced at his watch as his tummy was rumbling. Isabella had given him that watch. He started to weep “this watch is no good, I can’t read the time” Michelle tried to comfort him. ” Where is Isabella,” Peter sobbed, “When is she coming home?” He no longer knew that his wife had left him. Michelle’s heart broke as she cradled him to sleep.

Next day friends dropped in unexpectedly. Peter opened the door and looked at them blankly. “You don’t remember us do you?” They introduced themselves again to him even though he had known them for years. Peter became more isolated as the majority of his friends disappeared and he never wanted to go anywhere.

Michelle always accompanied him on his visits to the specialist; this time she explained what tasks he now found difficult. The list he could not do had increased dramatically. The neurologist said the new clinical trial Peter was participating in was important and the results would be published to help others in the field, treat patients in the future. Michelle understood when Peter said he envied them. They had a chance of combating this disease but it was too late for him.

Christmas came and they spent the day in the company of Peter’s children and grandchildren. He took a tablet that day but as he had several that week, its effect was diminished and that cloud of fog hovered over his mind again. Peter struggled to hold a conversation and could not manage to eat independently, spilling gravy on him. The younger grandchildren laughed at him, finding his clumsiness amusing. When Michelle cut up his turkey more stifled giggles came from the table, Peter felt ashamed. He excused himself from the table, saying he needed a sleep.

Time passed and the disease advanced like an army taking all in its wake. He could no longer shower or toilet and stumbled with words. He became more dependent on Michelle to care for him. Peter was down to his final tablet, which he took. The studio where he spent so many happy days in now needed to be packed up.

The only object left in the room was a mirror standing in the corner. Peter felt an overwhelming urge to paint one last time and staring at his reflection he painted his portrait. When finished what stood in front of them, Michelle barely recognized. The man she had looked after for only a short time was gone. His detailed features were still represented on the canvas but his eyes were dulled and glazed, there was no life. It had been eaten away. Peter had lost his battle with the enemy and now there was nothing left.  He had become what he feared the most…an empty shell.

Peter was buried shortly after that. The day was raining; Michelle and left the graveyard to walk home it was almost as if Peter was beside her smelling the freshness of the earth.