There was once a time when I would come home from school, khaki pants dirtied by the dusty playground, book bag hung on my left shoulder, a smile plastered on my face, happy to see your face. Your appearance never changed, and still hasn’t. You were always doing something around the house, cleaning the dishes, washing the clothes, the ones piled up on the same chair as they are now, your gray, curly hair with some black and blonde strands put up in rollers, your pale blue house robe buttoned to the top, yet you still managed to come over to me, kiss me on the forehead and say “welcome home.” You still made time to ask me, “What would you like for dinner?” Those days were the happiest days of my life. Your smile was, and still is, the highlight of my day.
I don’t know when things started to change. Maybe it was when you stopped cooking lunch and dinner. Maybe it was when you stopped ironing the clothes. Maybe it was when you stopped fixing small little holes found on a shirt. Maybe it was when you stopped going outside. Maybe it was when you stopped walking around. Maybe it was when you slept your days away, forgetting what day of the week it was. Maybe it was when you realized you didn’t want to live anymore, but maybe you don’t remember that.
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It’s always been just the three of us in this house. Nowadays it feels like there's only two. You're here, yet you aren't. I was never really aware of what was going on, or maybe I tried to pretend I didn't notice. He always told me, "She's getting sick. She's getting really sick," but I always said, "She's fine." How do you face the reality that you're not ready to see?
The doctors have said to help you start doing puzzles. They've told us to take you out more so we can get you to walk more. Every time we suggest something, all you do is brush it off. You say "I'll do it later," but it never gets done. They tell us that you need to eat more, and we try to serve you food, but you decide a few bites is enough and won't eat anymore.
We can't give you medicine because it makes you weak, yet there's no other thing that will help. If you take the medicine, you won't be able to eat, so at the moment, I'm not sure what outcome is the worst.
I try to talk you on walks, but your body has become so weak, so frail, that I have to hold you up, but I get yelled at for trying to help you. Because you're a grown woman, because you don't need any help, and because you hate feeling weak. Sometimes I try to feed you, especially when your tiny hands tremble, trying to place the fork in your mouth, but I joke around so you won't notice this is my way of making sure you eat.
So to you, the strongest woman I know, and to the woman, I'm watching forget, know that I will always be here. My days revolve around you, making you smile, making sure you remember. My days involve coming straight home every day to take care of you, talk to you, watch movies with you. My days involve helping you in and out the shower, helping you get dressed, and helping you figure out what you want to it. My days are filled with the things you once did for me.
They say losing someone suddenly is the worst experience to go through, but watching someone lose and forget themselves is on par. But for you, we will keep fighting. We will keep caring for you, and doing all we can. So keep fighting along with us. You're the strongest woman I know.
