The Broken Ones

by Sarah A. Denzil

never—not even for one single moment in my sorry existence—have I ever felt like a whole person.

Early. Onset. Alzheimer’s. And then a thought popped into my mind: This is my punishment.

This is my punishment for never being the daughter I was supposed to be. And there’s nothing I can do about it. All I can do is watch her as her mind is slowly eaten away by the disease.

How do mothers do that? How do they always manage to slip in a criticism as easily as saying hello? It seems to be second nature.

pokes at a long-forgotten memory. It’s there, but I can’t access it, like a word on the tip of my tongue.

Her little comments might have planted the seeds of doubt, but I let them grow until they became tangled weeds strangling the life out of our relationship.

There’s only so much anyone can do when you’re in this situation. They can’t clean up my mother’s urine or put her to bed. They can’t fill out the paperwork needed to sort out financial aid or finalise Mum’s will. They can’t be there 24/7, watching her to make sure she doesn’t burn down the house or try to eat uncooked bacon from the refrigerator. No, they can’t do any of that.

We want to give the children the best education we can, but the restrictions force us into becoming clones of each other, delivering clone messages to mini-clones.

I suppose mean old people are pretty hilarious. Unless they’re your parent, that is.

What I want is to go back and help the younger version of me.

She would no longer be suffering with this disease, with the pieces of her mind disappearing bit by bit. And I would be free.

the sensation that someone is watching me sweeps over my skin, as light and ticklish as the bristles of a paintbrush.

*

I bet he was trying to get away from you when he put his head through that noose. It’s all your fault. If I’d never had you…”

I would jump ship too if I was part of this broken woman.

The problem with finding that the world is imploding around you, and that your life has turned into a series of problems, is that there comes a time when the people around you are sick of hearing about it but are too polite to tell you they’re sick of it. You’re the bore who makes their day a little less sunny. You’re a negative influence in their lives and there’s nothing you can do about it, unless you want to keep your mouth shut and not say anything.

It hurts to be around anyone happy, because I see the way I suck the happiness from the room.

The air is filled with the tang of urine.

I am the immovable object that my mother has never encountered before in her life.