It is bizarre, the way this illness has hit me. I don't remember it of course; early onset Alzheimer's, I'm told, on a nearly daily basis. There is a man that visits and with him comes my son. I remember the visits but not the man.
Day 3
When the man comes, I smile. "Who are you?" I ask, and he looks at me with those blue eyes, so like my son's, and he says "I'm Tim, I'm your husband."
"Okay." I have no choice but to believe him. Behind him is my son, Timmy. "Hey Timmy." My three year old rushes towards me, arms outstretched, and I take him into my arms. I don't remember why Timmy doesn't live with me anymore. Perhaps this husband of mine is supposed to look after him.
Later, I remember, because as I gaze at Timmy I see, in my mind's eye, a time when I don't know him. Somehow I know I've felt like this before, though I have no recollection.
"Timothy," I say, to my husband who is not my husband, "can we go out, all of us? I'd like to go somewhere."
"Where?"
"A day out, like we always do." His confusion tells me I've said the wrong thing. "Picnic?"
"I don't have any food with me. Tomorrow, we'll go tomorrow." I know this is possible, because tomorrow I will still know Timmy. I nod and my almost-husband continues, "we could go for lunch? Or to the cinema? Timmy, what do you think?"
My son looks excited. He doesn't know what's coming.
So we go out. A lady comes in to help me change, but I don't know why. I can dress myself, put on my own shoes, but she insists on tying the laces while my son and the man watch. I wish they would avert their eyes.
Then we leave. I don't focus on the film we watch, only Timmy's hand in mine the whole time, except for when he reaches into the box to grab popcorn into his tiny hand, stuffing it into his tiny mouth, only to take my hand again and cover it with stickiness.
I don't focus on what I'm eating, only the mess Timmy makes at the cafe. To think I hated his mess, and now I love it because I know I'll lose it when I lose him.
Day 2
"You have some visitors," the nurse says.
In come the man who brings my son. I recognise his face, but I have no idea who he is. "My name is Timothy, I'm your husband," he tells me, as though exasperated. Timmy, my son, runs to me. "I brought a picnic," says Timothy.
The nurse helps me dress, and inside I fume, thinking 'I am not a damn child, I can dress myself.' But I don't say it, all I can think about is the day after tomorrow, when I know I'll look at Timmy and not know him. Just like this man who says he's my husband and looks enough like Timmy for me to believe him.
I lie on the plaid picnic mat and Timmy feeds me carrot sticks, too many all at once so that I almost choke. But I don't mind, it's just to great to see him happy, even when he gets bored and slams down on top of me, carrot on his face, and winds me. I focus on his body on mine and my arms around him.
I make them promise to come the next day.
Day 1
When Timmy comes, I wonder how he got here. Then I look at the man with him, and realise that's how. "Who are you? Why is my son with you?"
"I'm your husband."
"Why don't you all go sit in the TV room?" the nurse suggests, and I nod, shrugging on a dressing gown.
I am the youngest in the room, and i don't remember why I'm there. Timmy doesn't know either, because he stares at the old people before pulling me towards a sofa and sitting down with me. The news is on and he isn't interested, so he tries to get me to play, but I'm really tired today. Sometimes I look up and wonder whose child this is, until I remember.
It's nearly the day. It breaks my heart.
I spend most of the day in the TV room and watch him. He plays on the ground and I drink him in, the sight of him, my love for him and his for me, knowing tomorrow I'll look and think 'who are these people who have come to visit?'
Day 0
I wake up and wonder where I am. I know my name still, but not what room I'm in. When a nurse comes in, I think I must be in a hospital. The man and boy who follow her are strange to me, but I can immediately tell by the mousy hair and bright blue eyes they're father and son.
"I'm sorry, but who are you?"
The hurt mixed with annoyance is brimming over in the man's eyes, as though he knows a terrible secret that I don't. But he doesn't tell me what it is. He doesn't have time, before his son speaks, "Mummy, what are we going to do today?"
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