Lament

“I want to go home!” “Sit here, this is your home!” “No!” And then you slowly lower yourself onto the bed, your gaze drifting away. “You know, my house has a green meadow that slopes down to the river. When I sneak through the thorny bushes, I dip my feet into the water full of pebbles that glisten in the moonlight. As a child, I caught fish with my hands and splashed my feet in the shallows. And on the other side of my house, pine trees rise up, waking me in the morning by hitting the windows with their branches. The wind howls and bends the trees.” “But you lived there long ago as a little boy. This is your house!” “No! What kind of windows are these? Like bars behind which I see thousands of city lights. No! From my windows, I look out at hills shrouded in mist. I can reach the clouds with my hand! And the Moon!”

And so old man with gray hair sits there, sadly. And I am silent too. I sit beside him and hug him. He is my strength, my life. The best morning coffees shared with him. Those calloused hands and that finger curled from a lifetime of hard work and struggle for existence. The man walking beside me, standing tall and proud in his suit. My role model and my shoulder to cry on.

Now you sleep. I listen to your breathing. Are you breathing? I sit beside you and crochet. I turned off the TV. I removed all the plugs and cables out of fear that you would turn it on and watch anything.

Those people in the box invade his room. They talk to him and confuse him. Sometimes they sing. Sometimes they shoot. They were here, and they kill. The lights of the screen flash like thousands of lightning bolts, and he jumps: “Let me out! Why did you lock me in? Give me the key! Open up!” I stand in the doorway. He pushes me away. His strong worker’s hands grip me. “Where’s the key?” Then he takes a rickety chair and tries to climb up to the somewhat faded old beech wardrobe with relief patterns. The one that has a small storage area at the top for keys, screws, old papers, and pictures. I scream uncontrollably at him, trying to hold him back: “No! Get down!” My heart races with fear. I don’t have the strength to fight a man who weighs 90 kilograms. He looks at me strangely, as if he doesn’t understand all the yelling, pauses, and then climbs down. Ah!

We sit in silence. I feel a little ashamed. I tell myself I shouldn’t be like this with you. The doctor said: “You must understand that dementia is such a disease where it is invaluable to help your loved one feel safe and loved, even though they often become physically aggressive. Both short-term and long-term memory are completely lost. They depend entirely on others.” I know. That’s why I’m here. I’m just scared. I’m afraid of every breath you take. I lose my breath and my heart races when you start to choke on the pureed baby food. I choke, too. Please stay with me. How will I manage without you?

The previous night, he wandered trough the room, looking around. He talked incoherently. “They are waiting for me. I have to go.” He bursts into the hallway and grabs the locked door. It’s cold outside. The frost has etched patterns on the glass. “I’ll let him see where he’s going. Don’t worry,” my brother tells me as he follows him. And he, in a thin jacket and slippers, goes out. He looks around disoriented. I stand at the entrance, speechless. I wait for him to turn around and come back. He quickens his pace down the steep, ice-riddled street. The bare branches overhead creak ominously. The darkness brings sadness. I stand there, hypnotized. With my shoulders slumped, he disappears around the bend onto the open street. I wait and shiver.

What happened all of a sudden? Why are nights always the worst? When you are left alone with yourself, the demons of fear awaken. Everything is different. It’s as if there’s something unfathomable beyond that boundary of light. I hold my breath.

Here they come. I run downstairs. He struggles, falls. His knees are wet. My brother lifts him and drags him. Panic and sadness overwhelm me. “I couldn’t stop him. I brought him back by force.” They come inside. Dad sits, shivering from cold and stress. Raindrops fell on his face. I gently wipe him and cover him to keep him warm. Words comes out of him like soap bubbles. Distress and anger: “That man hates me!” I gently hug him and soothe him. I tell my brother that he doesn’t understand—that this is an illness and it has stolen his memory. It’s so sad because it erases your entire life. Everything you ever were. What a man he was. A giant!

In the next moment, everything is quiet. You sleep for hours. I sit beside you, making sure you don’t fall off the bed. The night gently descends like a mist through the window. I can see almost the whole city with its dim lights. Life goes on. People stroll. And they stroll. And I count every breath of you—the man I love.

The morning sunlight fills the room. The lace curtains create a mosaic of shadows. At the door, like a ray of light, stands your grandson. He approaches, smiling, and kisses your gray hair. “Grandpa, do you know who I am?” With raised, bushy eyebrows, you responds, surprised by the question: “How could I not know! My handsome grandson!” And just like that, everything seems the same, unchanged, as you exchange stories.

Suddenly, he points at me. “And do you see this woman crocheting? If only you knew how well she takes care of me, how she feeds me. She’s so kind and gentle with me.” His face lights up with happiness. I try again: “Dad, I’m your daughter!” He looks at me strangely: “I don’t know that. I have a daughter and a son with my wife. Where did you come from?” “It’s me! I’m the daughter you had with my late mother.” “Then she cheated on me and had you with someone else!” He scrunches his lips in a bewildered grimace.

Somewhere in the depths of his heart, he has hidden me. Now I’m just some woman who cares for and loves him. But even that comforts me. That feeling of love, even though he can’t remember who I am.

I sit right next to you. The day slowly blends into darkness. You haven’t moved for too long. I lean over you, straining to hear your barely audible breathing. My thoughts frozen, indefinite, suspended. My lament. I cannot accept that you will leave me, too. I stroke your hand just as you stroked mine since the day I was born. You gave me life, pain, and joy. I just hope you know with how much love I have looked at you.

Now I hold you, and I must let you go to your green meadow where you used to gather St. John’s wort, yarrow, and chamomile. To let you catch fish with your hands. To reach for the clouds and the Moon where you took your first steps. I look at your serene face. You are returning to your home where you lived as a boy, while the yellow fields of dandelions bloom, the river sparkles in the copper sunset, and you run joyfully with outstretched arms. You have reached your meadow.

You didn’t wake up until morning. And not even then.

My beautiful father, my pillar of existence, my fear of how unpredictable life can be.