Stuck In Time

      I’m still living in my own house, but it’s a daily struggle. I remember things that happened many years ago, but I can’t recall what I did yesterday, this morning, or an hour ago. Sometimes I know I have dementia, but other times I just don’t recall what the hell’s wrong with me. I can’t remember what I consumed for breakfast today, but I sure know what I ate when I was growing up on a farm. Fresh eggs were my favorite. My mother was a stay-at-home mom with four kids. She was a great cook with a large vegetable garden and a husband who loved her. I was a middle child who loved animals. I have two old cats now, but I don’t recall their names or if I fed them today. They’re fat, so I don’t worry too much about them starving, although I remember my cat named Fluffy when I was growing up. It died a tragic death and my dad cremated it in the dead of winter because the ground was too frozen to bury it.

           My childhood years are the easiest memories. During the 1950s when gas was 30 cents a gallon and a loaf of bread 25 cents, I spent the summers with my Great Aunt Laura. She was a registered nurse and owned a nursing home in a mansion on Sherman Hills, packed with elderly people; ambulatory and bedridden. One day out of curiosity and boredom I climbed the steps to the forbidden attic where my Great Uncle Tom was having a fit that could wake the dead. I stopped in the doorway and looked inside the room that smelled of vomit and urine.  My uncle was jumping on his bed like a crazy man and franticly scratching his body.  “Watch out!” He shouted. “There are snakes and spiders crawling all over the place.”

           Aunt Laura jabbed him in the ass with a needle and he fell limp onto the mattress. Holding up his head she gave him a shot of whiskey.              

           “Why are you giving him that?” I asked, worried she’d snap at me for sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong.

           Dressed in a starched nursing uniform, with her hair braided and tucked under her white hat, she looked at me with what I thought was pity. “He’s hallucinating and having DTs, so I’m slowly withdrawing him from alcohol. Without it, he could die.”

           He looked plenty old to me with wrinkled skin, grey hair, and bony legs, so I asked, “What are DT’s?”

           “Delirium Tremens, Dear,” she answered kindly. “His body is shaking because he needs a drink. Let alcoholism be your lesson for the day. Heavy drinking runs in our family. Your father, grandfather and uncle are boozers and one day you may be hooked on the bottle too.”

           I left quietly and went back downstairs. I was confused and afraid of what it meant to get hooked on a bottle like a fish on a hook. It made no sense to me, but sometimes I just didn’t understand what she was trying to teach me, so I made a habit of asking her later.  She could be a gentle soul with her patients, but with me she was a bit tougher. Not cold, or unkind, but a very wise, rather affectionate woman who once told me that she was teaching me knowledge. But underneath all that my father said she was a shrewd old maid. He told me she got rich by catering to wealthy residents like old Mr. Johnson whose short-term memory was shot to shit just like mine.  Once a loan officer at a bank, he also became a famous author of historical novels after he retired.  Oh, the tales he told me about WWI, the dustbowl and the Great Depression would shock the average reader, but for me he was the reason I became a published novelist with a zest for writing about love, drugs and alcohol. The thing is, I can’t think of the last novel I wrote, but I sure can dredge up the trashy one, filled with hot sex and espionage after I had a steamy affair with a sexy FBI agent.

           I giggled a little at that memory. My former husband hated my writing and was jealous of my success. Numerous times he accused me of having affairs and I always stood up to him and lied, denying any acts of infidelity. Those arguments always ended up being used for steamy love scenes in my novels, so I have to give some credit to my old man for giving me such good ideas that brought me creative ideas and money. He also gave me two wonderful children, although he was a lousy lover with an erectile dysfunction.   Back then, things like that weren’t talked about, not even behind closed doors, so when I started to write about guys who couldn’t get it up, my books flew off the shelves. It was about that time when I came home with a big check from my publisher, and I found hubby humping the town whore. That was another great idea he gave me for a Best Seller.

           I’m sitting at my computer now because I’m feeling stuck in my past and lost in the present as if I have amnesia.   Sometimes I play solitaire. They say putting a puzzle together stimulates the brain cells, but I find good sex or writing love scenes is much more arousing. I don’t recall what I just wrote, or why I wrote it, but maybe I’ll read it again sometime. I remember writing short stories when I was a teenager, but I sure can’t summon up what I wrote a week ago. I’ll check my email. Perhaps I have a deadline, or maybe my editor has contacted me.    

           I stared at the computer, forgetting everything. There were words on the screen but nothing I could read. My mind was blank. I couldn’t conjure up a damn thing. It was if I was stuck in time, with no memory. I placed my fingers on the keyboard, but I forgot how to use it. I looked out the picture window with hopes of jarring my memory, but nothing came. I sat there for a long time, alone, staring at the rain beating noisily against the window pain. When the hail came, it jarred my memory of the rainy days at Woodstock with hippies and singers like Janis Joplin, Jimmi Hendrix and Joan Baez. Alcohol and drugs were everywhere. Like all the drug addicts I took a trip on LSD, smoked marijuana, and snorted cocaine. I took mud baths, danced in the rain and had orgasms with strangers. 

           Then the doorbell rang, and I forgot what I was thinking. When I went to the door there was a middle-aged woman on the other side.

           “Hi, Mildred,” the stranger cheerfully said. “May I come in? I’m the lady from Home Health. I’ve come to clean your house and take you shopping.”

           “I don’t need a maid or a taxi driver.”

           She flashed an ID hanging around her neck. “I’m not a salesman, nor am I a nurse. I’m a homecare provider. You meant me last week for the first time. We made plans to go somewhere for lunch.”

           “I'm not hungry. I'll drive myself after I call my publisher.”

           “Mildred, you have Alzheimers so you can no longer drive. I’m your transportation. Last month you were picked up for a DUI. Your car was totaled and towed to compound. You lost your driver’s license and your car.”

           “Oh my, did I lose my purse too? That’s where I keep my stash and my car keys.”