When Alzheimer Strikes
H. Lena Jones
He could hear water tumbling into the bathtub; hear Mildred’s childish laughter; hear the attendant chiding and coaxing her to step into the tub. The last three years were sad years for him; sad because he had watched his beloved slip through the stages of Alzheimer disease. He couldn’t bear to put her into a nursing home, he wanted to care for her himself. He wanted to be there for those rare moments when she was herself, in case it was the last.
He blinked back the sting at the back of his eyes. “Lord,” he prayed, “how quickly time passes. Just yesterday we were young and madly in love. We…oh Father, when my Milly goes, don’t make it too long for me. For now, I must be brave for her, be here for her. Give me another rare moment with her…let her share that one precious memory with me again. Thank you.” He wiped the one tear that escaped out the corner of his right eye.
Derek didn’t have long to wait for the Home Attendant to wheel Mildred out in her wheelchair.
“My dear,” he said with a warm smile, “how lovely you look today…as pretty as the day I first met you.”
Mildred laughed, her eyes sparkled with recognition. “When he was first given to me, Macbeth was just the cutest little piglet I’d ever seen,” said eighty-year-old Mildred Sparks to her husband.
Derek reached for the frail hand. God had answered his prayer. This was going to be one of those rare moments when his wife was in a talking mood. “Oh, yes, the piglet,” he whispered. “Tell me about it.”
For sixty years Derek had heard his wife recount the story and for sixty years he’d had to pretend he was hearing it for the first time. But he didn’t mind one bit; his beloved was temporarily back in the real world.
“I was only six then,” continued Mildred, rocking her body back and forth in her chair. “Sure, I had checked the animal to make sure all its body parts were present and accounted for—short legs with cloven hooves, short curly tail, and long flexible snout. But the one thing I didn’t check was its…” Here Mildred cleared her throat.
Derek closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He knew the piglet’s story word-for-word. At the right moment—usually when Mildred paused for a deep breath, he knew it was his cue to ask the right question. Now was such a time.
“What?” he said, cupping one hand behind his ear. “What should you have checked, my love?”
And as always, Mildred would not repeat herself. “Well,” she said, adjusting her frail body in the chair, “like every six-year-old; I had to make sure the piglet had a comfortable bed on which to sleep, and a blanket to keep it warm.” Mildred paused and inhaled deeply.
“And what did you name the little swine, Mildred dear?” asked Derek quickly before she had a chance to exhale the lungful of air.
“Macbeth,” said Mildred exhaling the name like a bellows expelling air at red-hot cinders.
“Macbeth? So, it was a boy piglet, then,” said Derek, his moustache twitching like blades of grass shimmering in a gentle wind.
“I didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl piglet, dear. At six I wouldn’t know the difference.” said Mildred. “So I named it ‘Mac’ – that’s part of a boy’s name, and ‘Beth’ – that’s part of a girl’s name, although I preferred to think of it as a boy. Now, stop interrupting and let me continue, will you?”
Derek adjusted his shoulders trying to stifle the giggle that was threatening to erupt like Mount Vesuvius. He waited patiently to be cued in for his next question.
“Every morning I bathed and dressed Macbeth. I brushed his short coarse bristles before bringing him his morning slop. Often I would sit and watch him snort and grunt as he ate. When he finished, I would pat him on the head and tell him what a good boy he was for finishing his meal. Then I would reprimand him for making such a mess. I always had to wash slop off his snout before I left him, you know.” Mildred paused again.
Of course, it was Derek’s cue to ask his next question, but he had dozed off. Only when he heard Mildred suck in her breath audibly did he jolt out of his little nap.
“Ah, yes, dear,” he said, hoping he was about to ask the right question. “You said you dressed Macbeth after you’d given him a bath. What exactly did you mean, sweetie? Dress him? Why?”
“Mom knitted two sweaters for Macbeth – a black one and a red one. I alternated them each morning. Oh, how Macbeth loved being made a fuss of. Then came the time when he outgrew his sweaters. He was older then, and I had to let him mix with the other pigs. I no longer bathed, dressed, or fed him. This made me sad, and for one whole day, I refused to eat. But Dad said it was best for Macbeth to be with the other pigs, because it needed to be pig-trained. What better place to do that than among its own kind, eh? So Dad let me help him carry the huge buckets of slop to the pigs’ trough.
“Then, one day, I noticed that Macbeth was getting fatter and fatter. I told Dad he was giving him too much food.” Mildred paused and took her time inhaling. When she cast a covert glance at Derek, she was glad to see that he was paying, or appeared to be paying, close attention to what she had been saying.
“Anyway, what did your father say was the matter with the animal?” piped up Derek on cue.
“Oh, he said, Macbeth needed as much food as possible?”
“And why was that, my love?” Now the questions were more rapid.
“Because . . .”
“What kind of an answer is ‘because’, Sweetie?”
“The only answer you deserve for being nosy.”
“That’s not fair, Milly.”
“Say ‘please’ then.”
“Please then, what kind of an answer was ‘because’?”
Mildred threw her head back and broke into a deep hearty laugh. Tears poured down her wrinkled cheeks. Derek loved to see her laugh like this and he truly enjoyed her trip down memory lane. It made her look younger and it made him imagine her as an innocent six-year-old. Mildred’s laughter was infectious and soon Derek was laughing too.
Eventually, Mildred dried her tears, looked Derek in the eyes and said, “Because Macbeth was going to have…” Mildred burst out laughing again. Of course, Derek already knew the answer, but he had to wait patiently for Mildred to gather herself and tell him the rest of the story. He handed her his handkerchief.
Finally, after wiping her eyes and blowing her nose like a foghorn, Mildred heaved a great big sigh then said, “Babies. Macbeth was going to have babies. You see, Derek, I should have asked…I should have checked its…but I didn’t know…” Mildred hesitated like she always did because even at eighty, she still had difficulty saying the word. One gentle prod was required here and as usual Derek provided it, knowing the answer would be a soft whisper.
“You should have checked its what, sweetheart?”
“Gender…oh Derek, I….” Mildred’s eyes glazed over.
Derek knew her journey down memory lane was over. He reached for her hand and gently caressed it. The back of his eyes stung. “My sweet Mildred,” he whispered and leaned over and kissed her soft lips.
For a moment Mildred responded, and squeezed his hand, then her fingers stiffened. She pulled away, her eyes fixed on the man beside. She withdrew her hand.
“Who are you?” she whispered. “It’s not proper for the gardener to be familiar with his employer, you know.”
Derek swallowed the lump in his throat. "My apologies, Madam, how presumptuous of me."
Please, God, he prayed silently. Let us have tomorrow too!
