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It was the same distant stare his mother had had in the years before she passed away from complications related to early-onset dementia, the very cruelest of diseases that stole the mind and soul without mercifully taking the body as well.
It said a lot about a person, the way they treated someone with dementia. A little bit of kindness and patience spread further than butter on a hot crumpet.
“Well, I guess you can’t always rely on feeling in love. That comes and goes. It’s a decision, too, you know. You have to look after it. The more you can make the other person feel loved, fill their tank as it were, the more they have in their reserve to make you feel loved. It’s a cycle. I used to try and plan little surprises when I could if ever things were getting stale.”
The beauty of being this old was that you didn’t have to worry too much about sunscreen anymore. Something was sure to take you before a melanoma would.
Grief is often invisible to the outside world—Fred was like still water whose reflection mirrored the sun but concealed dark and murky depths underneath. He often wondered how his body still held together when his soul had broken into a million pieces.
Grief was love with nowhere to go.
“Would you mind terribly, old boy, if I borrowed the rest of your life? I mean, I know you’re not using it, you see, and it seems a shame for it to go to waste. I promise I’ll take excellent care of it. I wouldn’t normally ask—it’s just that I’m a bit down on my luck and really have nowhere else to go. I did try to set them straight but they just won’t listen—and now, well, I could do with a friend or two.”
“You’ll never regret being kind even when people aren’t kind to you.”
It was the strangest thing to look at a photo of someone you thought to be yourself yet have no memory of it. Perhaps that’s what having dementia was like.
When memory goes, you see, all that’s left is emotion. What we have for breakfast or where we parked the car or what year it is doesn’t matter, but we still feel who we love—and we love each other very, very much.”
Was she right? Was cancer less painful than grief?
From that day on he realized it was possible to grieve a living person.
Fred had learned all the tips and tricks over the years: never argue, go with the flow; never shame, instead distract; never condescend, always encourage. All the while, his heart was breaking.
“It’s a funny word, isn’t it? Cherish? I never fully understood what it meant, not until Albert lived it out.” She paused, her eyes distant, like they were inside the memory. “It was the little things, you know—always giving me the biggest slice of anything, checking if I needed something before bed, bringing me cups of tea. Do you know he complimented me for every meal I ever made, even when it was a barbecued chicken from Woolworths and microwaved frozen peas?” She
“Feelings are like flatulence: better out than in, that’s what I always say.”
A giggle began to form in Fred’s belly working its way up his whole body, like an eraser rubbing away all the stress as it went. Soon the pair were belly-laughing, gasping for air amid their chortles. This was certainly good for his soul, not to mention the old ticker.
But love that lasts a lifetime—well, that’s something very few get to experience. Love is . . . about picking someone up and never, ever putting them down again, no matter how heavy things become.”
But it will be an even stronger love, strengthened by the daily exercise of choosing each other. Not just a love that loves when things are easy, when you’re feeling happy. No, it will be an unbreakable love that continues loving when things are hard. One that loves through bad times, through loss, in health, and in sickness.”
It was funny to think how older people were often clumped together regardless of age. Many folks would consider nursing home residents to be of the same generation; yet Ruby was old enough to be his mother.
“At least we can laugh at ourselves. People often ask me about the secret to living a long, happy life. I think that’s it—not taking things too seriously.”
If only there was a way of making loved ones into melodies so they, too, could be remembered.
“Asking for help isn’t failing, you know—it’s refusing to fail.”
Like water bursting from a cracked dam, he finally felt Dawn’s forgiveness, too, though it had been there all along.
