Forever Love Forgotten Ch. 05

Mary was his rose; his real American beauty rose. Ten years before the program was even aired, she looked like Jaclyn Smith, one of Charlie's Angels, but with blonde hair and bigger breasts. She always was and will always be his tall, blonde, busty, blue-eyed angel.

Married for more than 40-years, George wouldn't know what he'd do without her. No doubt, with his condition quickly worsening without her there to constantly and continually remind him of all that he no longer remembered, he'd be lost. She was his best friend, his lover, and his confidant. Even though they could no longer have sexual intercourse, nonetheless, in the same way that he loved her then, he still loved her now.

His constant companion, wife, and soulmate, with them having no secrets after forgiving his sexual affairs with her sister, her mother, her best friend, her co-worker, and their next-door neighbor, she knows everything about him. A one-of-a-kind woman made exclusively for him, there's no one else like her in the world. Without her there beside him, he'd have no one to talk to, joke and laugh with, and tease. Without her there beside him, he'd lose all of his history of all the things they've done, people they met, and places they've been.

She has a good sense of humor and gives back her quick wit as much as she receives his good-natured ribbing. He's been teasing her all of his life and he loves it when he makes her laugh. It wouldn't be the same watching all of his favorite television programs without her sitting beside him on the sofa. As if they're still dating, and as if they're still teenagers babysitting, while hoping to steal a kiss, sometimes they hold hands and other times they sit with his arm draped around her and with her snuggling up against him.

"I love you, Mary," said George giving her a kiss.

She looked at him in the same anticipating way she did when they first kissed more than fifty-years ago. She looked at him in the same sexually way she did on their Honeymoon. She looked at him the same loving way when they celebrated their 45th wedding anniversary. She looked at him as if he was the only man in the world. She looked at him with love. In the way that she was his everything to him, he was her everything to her too.

"I love you, too, George," she said returning his kiss with her kiss.

# # #

Lost and lonely, with her doing everything for him except wiping his ass, his life would be so tragically empty and meaningless should anything happen to her and he was suddenly alone with his bad self. He couldn't bear to live the remainder of his life without her. Without her, he wouldn't remember anything or anyone. He'd want to die if she died before him. Rather than something happening to her, he'd rather it happened to him. Without hesitation, he'd give his life for her.

With him having his good days and more forgetful sometimes, she's always reminding him of where he put things. With them no longer having any secrets, Mary knew everything about George. His personal, walking and talking encyclopedia, his Alexa, Cortina, or Ciri, able to answer any question that he no longer remembered, she's his history of all the important dates, places, and times of their past. The keeper of his dwindling memories, she's his permanent record of all their experiences together. As if Alzheimer's was a computer virus to his brain, losing her would be like losing all the information stored on his computer.

A memory jogger, she remembered all the names of all their friends when he doesn't and no longer can. Just as someone would prompt the President of the United States the name of the person walking towards him, she did the same for him. She'd say their name out loud, when greeting them so that he'd know and hopefully remember who they are and what they are to him the next time they meet.

It's terrible forgetting names, dates, people, and places. As embarrassing as it is confusing, how awful to forget someone he had known for decades. As if locked in a room with no light, it's terrible losing the memory of who you are and who you used to be. Yet, as long as he had Mary there to light his way, while shining a spotlight on his past and present path, she was his beacon of hope that he wouldn't yet be lost.

"Oh, look, George. There's Charlie, your old friend," she'd say as his oldest, dearest, and forgotten friend, Charlie, approached him.

He'd smile and nod his head as if he knew him and remembered him even when he didn't and even though he couldn't.

"George, how are you?"

Even though he had no idea who Charlie was and, sometimes, who he was, unable to remember him, saving him from the embarrassment and staving off the inevitable at least Mary prompted him with his name.

"Good and how are you, Charlie?"

He couldn't count how many times she saved him from being embarrassed. Taking it as a personal insult to them, some people wouldn't understand that he didn't remember them by name. They'd think him rude that they were forgettable enough for him not to remember them. They'd think that he didn't like them. Even though some suspected by the light of recognition gone from his eyes, most don't know that he had Alzheimer's disease.

They'd take him not remembering them as a personal affront to who they are as a friend, relative, or acquaintance. They wouldn't realize nor would they seemingly understand that it was his mental disability with progressing dementia causing him not to remember them. Perhaps, they'd even think that it was their fault for being forgettable enough to be slighted and not his fault for not remembering them. Nonetheless, whatever relationship they had with him before, whether they were offended or insulted, gone from his mind forever, he'd end their relationship by not remembering them.

# # #

For some reason, names, as well as dates, were the hardest for him to remember. Sometimes, he hated to admit it, but he'd forget the names of his own children and grandchildren. Not remembering the names of his own children and grandchildren was most disturbing to him, but there's so many of them. Between his five children there's fifteen or seventeen grandchildren, he can't remember which, he forgets. When they're all in the house together at a birthday party or a barbeque with all of them running around in and out and looking so much alike, he can't tell one from the other.

"Wait. Slow down. Stop. You're making me dizzy with all of that running and giving me a headache with all of that screaming. "Do I know you? Do you know me? Who are you? What's your name? Who's your Daddy? Who's your Mommy?"

As if he's teasing them or playing a game, they'd laugh.

"Oh, Grandpa, you're such a tease. I'm Joey and my Dad is Anthony, your son."

'Anthony? My son,' he thought? 'I have a son named Anthony? I don't remember that. I should remember that but I don't,' thought George.

Trying to picture him in his weakened mind to remember his face, searching the crowd of people as if they were all strangers, he searched the room for Anthony.

"I knew that," he'd say rubbing Joey's head and sending him on his way, while knowing that he didn't know who Anthony was and, even though he knew who Joey was now, he'd soon forget.

# # #

If only they all had numbers and names on their foreheads as his guide to help him remember them, he'd better know who they were. With numbers much easier for him to remember than names and obscure and unrelated dates, he'd have a much easier time and a better chance of remembering which of his children had which grandchild and their names. Such as John would be John 1-A, eldest son, Anthony's first born. His daughter, Emily's first child, would be Christine 1-E, and so on.

With numbers and names relating to each of his children, instead of just names and dates, he could make up a cheat sheet. With the numbering system as his numerical guide, very helpful to him to finally know who was who, he'd no longer feel bad about not remembering their names when he had their names and identification numbers written on their foreheads. Of course, name tags instead of writing on their foreheads would work too. Yet, knowing how mischievous his grandchildren can be, thinking it all a game, they'd switch name tags with one another to trick and confuse him.

Only, not having much of a sense of humor, his children were all angry at him when he wrote his grandchildren's identification numbers on their foreheads with a finger paint after having such a hard time remembering who was who. He didn't know why they all made such a big fuss over it. It was just finger paint that could easily be washed off with some soap and warm water. What's the big deal? It was just while they were at his house. No one else but family would see them so named and numbered.

At the time, he thought it was a good idea and his grandkids liked it well enough too. They all thought it was a game they were playing with grandpa and they liked the personal and loving attention he gave them by giving them their own personal, identification numbered names written on their foreheads. It made them feel special having their numbers and names on their foreheads, at least he thought it did, except for his daughter's number four child, Flora's son, Tom, 4-F. With his Dad in the military, knowing what it meant and taking it the wrong way, he didn't like that 4-F designation.

"Mom, grandpa wrote on me with finger paint. Look, I'm Julie 3-C," said Julie his daughter, Cathy's, third child, with pride.

It's bad enough to forget names, dates, and places, but it's hurtful when his children talk about him as if he's not even in the room.

"Much less offensive, he could have given them name tags," said his daughter, Cathy, complaining to her mother.

'Maybe I should have given them name tags,' he thought. 'Only stapling a name tag to their forehead would hurt more than writing their name and number on their forehead with finger paint.'

One after the other they all beseeched her to put him in a nursing home.

"Mom, you need to get Dad some help. He's getting worse," said his number one child, his son, Anthony. "Put him in one of those nursing homes that specializes in the care that he..."

Really annoying him, he hated it when his children talked about him as if he's not there.

"I can hear and understand you. Hello? I'm right here in the room. Just because I forget things doesn't mean I'm an idiot."

Anthony looked over at him.

"Sorry, Dad," he said apologetically.

'Sorry Dad. I get a lot of that lately,' he thought. 'Sorry Dad. How do you think I feel? I'm sorry that I'm a pitiful father for not being able to remember the names and birthdays of my children and grandchildren.'

# # #

'What the Hell is wrong with me' he thought? 'With me having good days and bad days, some days I know them and other days I don't. Some days I know who they all are and some days they all look like strangers to me, even Mary.

Yet, even when I don't remember Mary, I notice her big tits. How could I not? As if she's a stranger instead of my wife, I'm unable to help myself from lusting over her big boobs. Even when I don't remember who she is and even though I've seen, felt, fondled, and sucked them thousands of times, I wonder what her big, naked breasts look like and feel like,' he thought.

Suffice to say, with him recently having more bad days than good, out of his control, he accepted the good days with the bad days. Yet, now knowing enough when he's having a bad day, he just smiles, nods his head, or remains in his room. He acts as if he knows who everyone is, even when he doesn't remember. Instead, he waits for someone to call them by name while hoping to remember them then. He intently listens to their conversations while listening for clues as to who all these people are and who they are to him.

Sadly, sometimes, as if the window to the outside world that has been slowly closing has finally slammed shut and nailed down, he feels trapped inside himself. Shut in and unable to open the window to the world outside his head, with his family all strangers to him, he's inside looking out. Even though he tries to open the window by trying to remember what it is they are all so desperate for him to remember, he can't.

'It doesn't help when they talk louder, show me old pictures of me standing with them, and yell at me,' he thought hurt that they'd do that. 'I'm not deaf or stupid. I just can't remember who the Hell they all are. Sometimes, I don't even recognize myself or Mary in pictures. Sometimes, berating myself for not remembering, I have no idea who all these people are, who they are to me, and what they're all doing in my house' he thought.

"Okay, I think I remember you now, but who's that guy with you in the photo?"

They smile politely while showing their impatience, intolerance, and limited understanding.

"That's you, Dad."

No matter how long he stared at the picture, he doesn't remember. He doesn't recognize himself in the photo. He doesn't remember where he was, why he was there, who he was with, and what he was doing. As if it never happened, it's gone from his memory, all gone and gone forever.

"Me? Really? That's me? Sorry," he said while staring longer at the photo. "Sorry," he said staring harder at the picture while searching for details in the background to jog his memory. "Sorry, but who are you again?"

His daughter leaned down to look him in the eyes.

"Emily. I'm Emily, Dad," she said showing her sadness and hurt that he didn't recognize her and/or remember her.

He smiled while saying her name.

"Emily. You're Emily. I remember you now," he said even though he didn't remember her.

He smiled at her again while patting her hand.

'I'm tired of saying sorry, when it's not my fault that I can't remember them,' he thought. 'Sometimes, even when they tell me who they are, I still don't remember who they are. I just smile, as if I recognize them, when I just wish they'd all go away and leave me the Hell alone. It's so exhausting trying to remember all the things that I can't remember and no longer will remember.'

The movie that is his life still continues to play in his mind but, with the characters and the settings constantly and continually changing, their names don't go with the faces. None of them look familiar. They all look like strangers. No matter how hard he tries, no matter the clues that Mary gives him to help him to remember them, he doesn't remember them.

'Am I losing my mind and not just my memory,' he thought troubled by the possibility of becoming a vegetable?

Running out of familiar images to show him, he feared the time when the projector will just turn off and stop. Then, having no more story to tell, to view, and to remember, he'll just sit there silently lost within himself. Waiting to die with all these same strangers continuing to talk at him as if they know him and as if he should know them, but he doesn't, he can't. He's always so confused. He's always so sad, so tired, and so lost.

'All they do is to make me feel bad and stupid,' he thought. 'I feel sad that I don't remember them, when I should, but I can't. I just can't remember. It hurts my head trying to remember.'

"I'm sorry but I don't remember you," he's said to his wife, his children, their spouses, his grandchildren, and his oldest and dearest friends.

# # #

Sometimes they make him afraid in the way they just walk in his house as if they own the place, until Mary tells him that it's okay; it's just one of his children or grandchildren. She'll say their name to help him remember but their name and/or their face don't always match enough to evoke a memory. Not remembering them, his own children and/or grandchildren, makes him so sad and frustrated with himself.

'I should know my own children and grandchildren,' he thought. 'If Mary tells me they're my children and/or grandchildren, then I believe her, but I just don't remember them.'

Maybe they're the crazy ones and not him. Definitely by the way they act around him, sometimes they're all so impatiently rude. Sometimes, he just doesn't know who they all are. No one wants to be confused and, one day, after having lived such a full life, he fears being in a vegetative state and not remembering anything, even his name, who he is, and who he was. He fears of becoming a vegetable, a carrot, a celery, or a broccoli may be his reality when he doesn't even like broccoli.

'What was it that caused this,' he wondered? 'Was it hereditary or something I ate or didn't eat? Was it all the drinking I did in my youth and/or the smoking, too? Was it that one time, okay a few times that I experimented with drugs, but it was the '60's, everyone was doing drugs, and it was just marijuana? Was it the pills that I popped more than fifty years ago that fried my brain or the medicines that my doctors prescribe now that are made in China or God only knows where,' he thought while looking for someone to blame?

Maybe this was God's way for me having forbidden sex with my sister-in-law, Donna. Maybe this is the price I must pay for having sex with my mother-in-law, Carol. Maybe the Devil is seeking his due for allowing me to have sex with my wife's, hot, best friend, Sheila, her whore of a co-worker, Anita, and our exhibitionist, next-door neighbor, Karen.

He was glad that Mary, Queen Mary, his very own version of Saint Mary, was there to help him. Always there for him, now she's helping him through this terrible time of dependency and need in the way that she's helped him through everything else, his drinking and his philandering. Why she's still here with him, after all that he put her through with him having sex with her sister, her mother, her best friend, her co-worker, and their next-door neighbor was beyond him. He was just glad that she was.

'What would I do without her,' he thought? 'Alone with my bad self, with the light of my life dimming before extinguishing, not remembering anything or anyone, I'd just wither away and die, that's what I'd do. Taking the easy way out, I'd close my eyes and hope that I didn't awaken the next morning.'

Mary told him that he has Alzheimer's disease but, in denial, he doesn't want to believe that. No one else in his family had that disease. With there still no cure, it upset him to think that he has that terrible disease. Better that he'd lose the use of his arms or his legs than lose his mind.

Now, with the clock ticking, as short as 3-years and as long as 20-years, he has a quality of life time limit to his life. Who knows? Who's to say? Doctors don't know. Nobody knows. They don't know anything other than how to prescribe pills. They're all nothing more than pill pushers, medical agents for the big, pharmaceutical companies while earning commissions on many of the pills they prescribe.

'When you can't even trust your own doctor,' he thought, 'who can you trust?'

Yet, who wants to live another twenty-years like this and not remembering anything? He wouldn't want to continue living if his memories were all erased. He wouldn't want to continue living if he didn't remember his children, his grandchildren, Mary, and anything at all.

Hopefully, just a temporary setback and not a permanent medical condition, he's just forgetful is all. Maybe, hoping beyond hope, they'll find a cure before his time is up and before he forgets who he is and will give him another pill to take. He'd love nothing more than to remember everything and everybody again.

Just because he forgets to take his medication, forgets something as soon as he thinks of it, loses my car keys, and get lost on my way home, doesn't mean that he has Alzheimer's disease. Just because he forgets what he even went out for, where he needed to go, where he went, and sometimes forget to tie his shoes or zipper his fly doesn't mean that he has dementia. Just like Albert Einstein, he has more important things on my mind is all.