Stolen Memories

The room is unfamiliar.  I don’t know how I got here.  Groggily, I blink the remnants of sleep out of my eyes and look around, disoriented.  The room is sterile, like a hospital room, devoid of color and life.  The walls are stark white.  A small desk sits in front of the bed scattered with a few picture frames, but the faces are blurry from where I lay.  A wooden rocker sits next to the bed with a soft blue afghan draped over the back.  Dappled sunshine flits through the blinds as I continue to glance around the room, trying to understand where I am.  This isn’t my bedroom.

I turn my head to the right and suddenly realize that I am alone.  Where is Martha?  For the past 60 years, I have woken up next to her.  Some mornings, if I wake before her, I watch her sleep, listening to her even breathing, her brow relaxed with a peaceful expression on her face.  In those early mornings, I stare in wonderment that she chose me.  That I have been lucky enough to be loved by her.  

I’ll never forget the first time we met.  She was standing across the room, soft brown hair, blue eyes, sunny smile.  Her pale pink dress nipped in at her narrow waist before billowing out in a full skirt that stopped just beneath her knees.  I was instantly enamored.  I felt drawn to her, almost as though a string wrapped around my soul and tugged me towards hers.  Taking a breath for courage, I walked across the dance floor, our eyes meeting and her smile widening.  

“Would you like to dance?” I asked once I reached her.

“I would love to,” she replied, her blue eyes twinkling.

We danced the night away, smiling and laughing, getting to know one another.  Even then, somehow I knew that this woman was meant to be mine.

But this morning, she isn’t here.  And I’m not laying in my bed.  The bed I’m in only has room for one person and one pillow.  The sheets are scratchy against my aged-spotted arms, the thin blanket covering them offering very little warmth.  Murmured voices and padded footsteps reach my ears.  Martha must already be awake.

I sit up and dizziness assails me, causing my stomach to roil and the room to tilt.  A harsh chemical smell, faintly reminiscent of antiseptic wipes, assails my senses.  Where am I?  What is going on?  Once my head stops spinning, I carefully swing my flannel pajama-clad legs to the side of the bed.  I stand and my axis tips again, causing me to stumble.  I reach for the dresser to steady myself, only to find that the dresser isn’t where it is supposed to be.  I pitch forward, my knees hitting the ground, shooting splinters of pain up my legs.  Crying out, I catch my fall with my hands before my face hits the floor.

The door flies open and harsh, bright light floods the room.  “Louie!  Why were you trying to get out of bed?  You know to hit the call button when you need help,” an unfamiliar female voice reprimands.  Who is this person?  “Jason!” she calls.  “I need your help in room 9.”  Loud footsteps sound outside and hurry into the room.  Someone crouches on my right side, putting his shoulder under my arm, and helps me to stand.

“Does anything hurt?” the no-nonsense woman asks.  Even though my knees throb, I don’t want to tell her anything.  I don’t know her and am getting more confused about this situation.  I shake my head and ask, “Where’s Martha?”, my voice coming out in a croak.

Gently, like he is trying not to startle a skittish animal, the man says, “Louie, you’re in your room at The Meadows.  Martha will be here soon.”

Why isn’t she here now?

The woman, who I now think of as a sergeant, busies herself at a counter on the other side of the room.  I hear the man’s muffled voice talking in the hallway.  “Hi Sharon.  It’s Jason from The Meadows.  Your dad is ok, but I wanted to let you know that he fell this morning getting out of bed.  Are you planning on stopping by today?”

Sharon.  I know Sharon.  She’s my youngest daughter, blond hair like me, her mother’s sunny smile, and blue eyes from us both.  Sharon will know what to do and help me to understand what is going on.  She can help me get out of this place and go home.

As I settle into a chair, I think about our home.  The ranch-style house, built in the late 1950s, is white with black shutters, sitting on several acres of land in the country.  Cheery flower beds sit out front, a peach tree provides shade outside the sunny kitchen window, and there’s a tire swing hanging from the towering oak tree by the creek on the north end of the property.  There’s a red leather recliner in the den and a brick fireplace with antique tractors adorning the mantel.  My workshop in the garage is my sanctuary where my fluffy white cat keeps me company as I work on refinishing furniture.  Over the years, we stuffed a lifetime inside that home, raising children, welcoming friends, filling it with laughter, and finding joy in each day.  I yearn for home.

The sergeant walks up to me holding a plastic cup.  “Time for your medication, Louie.”  Medication?  I look at the pills warily.  Why do I need medication?  I don’t trust this woman.  She hands me the pills and a glass of water.  As she turns away, I covertly set the pills down on the table next to me while I take a sip of water.

I hear voices outside my door right before Martha steps inside carrying a large canvas bag.  She looks tired.  Dark circles are painted under her eyes, the twinkle that normally sparkles in them is dimmed.  “Good morning, Louie.  Are you ok?  Your nurse told me you fell this morning.”  Her brows draw together as she scans my body, looking for any signs of injury.

Inexplicably, I am angry.  How could she just leave me here to wake up alone?  “Where have you been?”  I ask in a gruff voice.  “Do you have someone else in our home?  Is that why I am here?”  My agitation increases, and I fidget in my seat, unable to reign in my rising paranoia.

Her eyes snap to mine, her expression stricken.  “What?  Of course not.  Louie, what are you talking about?  You are at The Meadows.  We moved you in here last month.  We thought it was the best way to keep you safe.”

Safe?  Nothing that she is saying makes sense.  “I want to go home.”

She closes her eyes in a grimace, and when she opens them, I see exhaustion.  Resignation.  Utter helplessness.

The woman I married is anything but helpless.  She is intelligent, hard working, and determined.  Throughout our marriage, I have learned that Martha has a stubbornness that is admirable, but also frightening when she wants something.  When I was drafted to the United States Army during the Korean War and received orders that I would be stationed in Italy, Martha lifted her chin and told me the separation would strengthen us.  I took time to write to her most days, pouring my love into each word, dreaming of the day when an entire ocean wouldn’t stand between us.  Reading her letters would buoy my spirit, each one pulling the string connecting our souls tighter until I could come back home.

“You didn’t take your pills this morning,” she states as she spots the small pile on the table beside me, her words pulling me back into the present.  Knowing she won’t stop until I swallow them, I acquiesce quickly.  Shortly after, I feel my eyes growing heavy, unable to stave off the descending fog of sleep.

I look up to see a soft light glowing from the front porch.  Excitedly, I turn to my brother, Eugene.  “Look!  There’s a light on outside!”  Eugene and I race up the long, gravel driveway towards the farmhouse, the tall corn stalks on one side swaying in the early October evening, the heady fragrance of honeysuckle wafting in the air.  The breeze is crisp as the sun slowly sinks behind the barn, the sky turning a fiery orange.  Mom stands on the porch, ready to welcome us home.  

“Mom!”  Eugene cries.  “Is it real?  Do we really have electricity now?”  We bound up the porch steps, excitement bubbling up, our eyes sparkling in the warm glow of the bulb.  

“Yes,” she replies, offering me a hug, a small smile tilting her lips.  “Our home has electric lights now.”

I slowly open my eyes.  White walls are in front of me, and the room is bright from the sun streaming in through the window to my right.  The room is unfamiliar to me.  I don’t know how I got here.  “Mom?” my voice quavers.  “Eugene?”

A sound rustles next to me, and a warm hand touches my forearm, instantly soothing.  “Dad, it’s me, Sharon.”  

I turn towards her voice.  “Sharon?  Where’s mom?”

“Mom’s right here.  Rob and I just got here a little bit ago.  You just missed Elaine and John.  They had to go home to take care of the horses.”

I glance around the room, looking for my mom but not seeing her.  All of the names swim around in my head as I struggle to match them up with faces in my mind.  Frustrated that I can’t make myself clear, I reply,  “No.  Where is my mom?  I was just talking to her and Eugene.”

Sharon’s blue eyes soften with compassion as she senses my confusion.  I see her carefully choosing her words, slowly saying, “Dad, you’re at The Meadows.  Your mom and Eugene are not here.  Grandma died a long time ago, and Eugene passed away several years ago too.”

Anguish sits on my chest, heavy and threatening to squeeze the air from my lungs.  Of course.  My confusion lifts slightly as my mind slowly shifts from my dream to the present.  My parents have been gone for almost 40 years.  Being one of the youngest of nine, most of my siblings have already died too.  But I could swear there is a lingering lemony scent of honeysuckle in this room, a poignant reminder of growing up on the family farm.

“Dad, I brought you some pictures from your great-grandkids.  Adalynn, Benton, and Olivia colored these for you and wanted me to hang them in your room.”  The names are unfamiliar to me.  Great-grandkids?  

I look at the pictures she puts in front of me.  One picture is of a black kitten.  Reds, purples, and yellows dot the background like flowers in a green field.  There is a note written on the bottom.  To Great-Grandpa.  Love, Adalynn.

Another picture is of a bright, red tractor.  This one is from Benton.  I love you Great-Grandpa.

The third picture is a mess of multi-colored scribbles.  In large uneven letters, the name Olivia is written on the top.  

I chuckle to myself, thinking about when my three daughters, Jane, Elaine, and Sharon, were little.  I remember wondering if Martha was pregnant with twins, but the doctor shook his head, telling us he didn’t think so.  Sure enough, Jane and Elaine were born only a short time later.  After the sleeplessness and chaos of having twins, Sharon was a walk in the park when she came five years later.  My heart warms with a memory of packing a picnic and going to the lake on a hot summer evening where we taught the girls to swim.  Martha and I planned a family vacation every year, taking the girls to places like the Wisconsin Dells and Washington D.C.  So many moments and memories cherished.

Sharon stands up and pins the pictures to a bulletin board in the room.  “Where are we?”  I ask.  “Is it time to go home?”

Sharon glances at her husband, Rob.  Right?  Yes, Rob is his name, I think as I feel the threads of my memory trying to unravel.  They share a knowing look.  Rob replies, “Louie, we’re at The Meadows.  This is your room.  We moved you in last month.  If you want to spend an afternoon at home, we can take you there tomorrow.”  

Panic squeezes my chest.  “I want to go home now.  Why are you leaving me here?”

Sharon approaches my chair and kneels down next to me.  Clasping my hands with hers, she says, “Dad, you have dementia.  We moved you here to The Meadows to keep you safe.  It was no longer safe for you at home.  We love you so much, and I promise someone will be here to visit everyday.  We aren’t abandoning you, Dad.  We could never do that.”  Tears shine in her eyes as her voice breaks on her last words.

Dementia?  Suddenly, I feel like a stranger in my own life.  I grow more and more agitated, feeling like they are all keeping secrets from me.

Suddenly, a woman with a stern face barges in the room.  “Ok Louie.  Time for your medication.”

“No.  I don’t want your pills,” I say defiantly.

Sharon gets up and whispers quietly to the nurse.  The woman eyes me over her shoulder, her lips pursed.  Finally she nods, retreating from the room.  Sharon walks up to me.  “Dad, this is medication that you take everyday for your heart.  And another pill helps you to sleep.  Can I get you a drink of water and an applesauce to help get them down?”

I sigh with resignation.  Sharon wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.  I can trust her.  Taking the cup she offers me, I swallow the pills, chasing them with a glass of cold water.  The dense fog descends a short time later, forcing my eyes to close.

I pull the ham from the oven as laughter fills the house, and footsteps bustle about in the kitchen as Jane and Elaine grab plates and silverware.  Martha is putting her finishing touches on the mashed potatoes as two of my grandsons race through the room and thunder down the stairs to the finished basement, where we are busily setting the table and laying out food.  The doorbell rings, and a minute later I hear my granddaughters’ voices ring out, “Merry Christmas!”  I turn to see Rob and Sharon’s family, a flurry of activity bursting through the kitchen, hugs and smiles quickly offered as the kids rush downstairs to join their cousins.  I look around at my family and think about how the love between two people has created all of this.  How our love lives on in the lives of our children and grandchildren.  Martha catches my eye and smiles, coming closer so that I can wrap my arm around her waist.  Looking into her eyes, I whisper, “Merry Christmas,” before placing a soft kiss on her lips.

I jolt awake.  The room is dark except for the soft glow of a lamp.  As my eyes adjust, I glance around in confusion.  The room is unfamiliar.  I don’t know how I got here.

There is a window to my right.  The sky outside is dark, yet there is a bright radiance shimmering around all of the children standing outside.  My heart is struck with awe, my eyes prickle, and my throat clogs with tears.

Someone rouses next to me.  “Dad?” I hear Sharon ask.  “Are you ok?  Do you need something?”

Unable to take my eyes away from the window, I reply with quiet reverence, “Look at all of the joyful children.”

Sharon glances outside, confusion knitting her brow.  Her hand clasps mine.  “Tell me about what you see, Dad.”

I tell her about the children standing outside.  Their smiles shine brightly, their eyes dance with joy. I tell her about the light surrounding them, radiating outwards and coming through the window, warming me from the inside out, enveloping me and filling my heart with deep contentment.

Sharon studies me, quietly listening.  “That sounds like a glimpse of heaven, Dad,” she says, eyes shining, tears tracking down her cheeks.

Yes, I think, this must be a piece of heaven.  I feel drawn to it, the way I imagine God’s love draws us all.  For the first time today, I feel at peace.  Settled.  The agitation and confusion that have become my daily companions recede in the comfort I feel in this moment.  I see my parents and siblings walk up behind the children, smiling.  It feels like I am finally home.