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Letter to My Son
Dementia runs in
the family, so if I can’t think of a name or a place, a moment
everyone else can vividly recall, I feel afraid. Useless. Ashamed.
You see, I don’t want anyone to carry me into another room so I can
get a view of a tree or remind me what a tree is or tell me what I’m
sipping from is called a straw. I’ve seen it all before. My
grandfather didn’t know he was eating a banana – only that someone
had to peel it for him, and that thing, that peel had to be thrown
away. I’m not saying it’s certain I will have dementia, but if I do,
please know this: I won’t be mad if you don’t take care of me. I
won’t even know that you’re not. Tell me everything’s okay, and I
will believe you. Tell me there’s a bird on a branch outside my
window, even if there is no window, and I will imagine he’s singing
to me. Once when a storm was coming my mother looked up at the sky,
told me God was punching the clouds to make rain pour out. She never
even believed in God. The point is this: I may not know exactly who
you are when you come to visit. I may be confused. But when I hold
your hand it will all come back in waves: rocking you in my arms
when you were a baby, your little seltzer voice, my heart flooding
my body with joy every morning you jumped in my bed. I will not be
angry like some people with dementia can get. I’ve never been good
at angry. I will not peel the yellow paper off the wall or bite my
caregiver. Play a few rounds of Blackjack with me. You deal. I will
smile each time I get a picture card. Tell me I’ve hit twenty-one
even if I bust. Use real chips, have party drinks with ice that
clinks, a cocktail napkin with which to dab my lips. |