Don't Let Me Forget

I wake up in a bed that isn't mine.

The ceiling fan hums like an insect. Slow. Lazy. Watching me.

The walls are yellow. Not the sunlit yellow of memory, but the kind of yellow that seeps into things and rots them from the inside. I don't know where I am. The bed sheets are stiff, tucked like a straitjacket around my legs. There’s a dresser with peeling white paint. A lamp with a frayed cord. A picture frame. A man in the frame.

He looks familiar. The eyes. Something about the eyes. He has a tired smile, like he’s worn it too long. I blink at him for a long time. Is that… is that me?

Footsteps down the hall. A voice. Laughter. A woman.

My chest tightens. I don’t recognize the voice. I don’t recognize any of this.

I sit up too fast. The room tilts, and my head throbs like something's trying to crawl out of it. There’s a wheelchair in the corner. A pill bottle on the nightstand.

My name. What is my name?

The door creaks open, and she walks in—middle-aged, curly brown hair, dark circles under her eyes. She gasps like she’s happy to see me, but I don’t know her.

“There you are, Dad,” she says.

Dad?

I stare at her. Her eyes pool with something I can't understand.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

Her face crumples like paper.

“It’s me. Emily.” She comes closer, cautiously, like I might bite. “Your daughter.”

I shake my head. No. No. That’s not right. I was just at the office. I had coffee this morning. I read the newspaper. I kissed my wife on the cheek—didn’t I?

“Where’s Anna?” I ask. “Where’s my wife?”

Emily’s lip trembles. “Mom died, Dad. Two years ago.”

I blink. The room tilts again. “That’s not… that’s not true. We were going to the store.”

“Dad…” she says softly, like I’m made of glass. “You’ve been living with me for months. You have dementia. Remember?”

I don’t. I don’t remember any of this. The room feels smaller now, the air thick, choking me. My heart races. This woman is lying. She has to be. She’s trying to trick me.

I swing my legs off the bed. My knees buckle, and the world turns sideways. Hands catch me.

“Let go of me!” I shout.

She steps back, tears falling fast now. “I’m trying to help you.”

I crawl to the dresser. The man in the frame stares at me again. I pick it up and look closer.

The suit. The eyes. That’s my tie.

That’s my face.

But older.

Too old.

I stumble back. My mind feels like it’s cracking apart.

“Who did this to me?” I whisper.

Sometimes I’m in a hospital. Other times, I’m in a car that smells like air freshener and old memories. A nurse pushes me. A man in a white coat asks me to draw a clock. I draw it. He frowns.

It doesn’t look like a clock.

It looks like a spider with its legs torn off.

People talk around me like I’m not there. They whisper words like progression, hallucinations, long-term care.

I keep a notepad, though I don’t remember where I got it. Every morning, the first page says:

Your name is Thomas.

Your wife Anna is gone.

Your daughter is Emily.

You have dementia.

You are safe.

Sometimes I read it and nod. Other times, I read it and scream.

Because the truth never gets easier to swallow.

I sit at the table with a sandwich in front of me.

I’m not hungry. I’m not sure what this is. I pick it up and look inside. Ham? Tuna?

“Eat, Dad,” Emily says.

Her voice is tired. Her smile is fake. Her eyes are distant. I think she loved me once. Maybe she still does. But it’s hard for her now. I see it.

I put the sandwich down.

“Where’s Anna?” I ask again.

Emily closes her eyes. She doesn’t answer anymore. I suppose I’ve asked too many times.

She gets up and walks into the kitchen. I hear her crying when she thinks I can’t hear.

There are nights I wake up screaming.

The walls close in. The shadows reach for me. The clock ticks backwards. I scream for help, but no one comes.

And sometimes, worse—someone does.

A strange man bursts into the room, telling me to calm down.

I scream louder. Who is he? Why is he in my house?

He tells me he’s my son-in-law.

I don’t believe him.

He puts his hands on me. I shove him. I curse. I hit.

He restrains me. I cry like a child.

Later, I hear them talking behind the door. I make out phrases: He needs full-time care. We can’t do this much longer. He’s getting violent.

I sit on the bed and stare at the floor for hours.

But not every day is bad.

Some days, I remember.

I wake up, and I know who I am. I know where I am. I know Emily. I remember her freckles, her crooked teeth when she was twelve. I remember walking her down the aisle. I remember Anna’s laugh, the way she said my name like it was sacred.

On those days, I hold Emily’s hand and apologize.

“I’m still here,” I whisper. “I promise.”

She cries every time. Not loudly. Just a silent, shaking kind of cry.

Sometimes I forget again before lunch.

One afternoon, I look out the window. It’s raining. I remember rain. I remember the way it smells—like clean earth and old love.

Emily brings me a sweater. I thank her. I know her today.

We sit together on the couch. I reach for the photo album. My fingers tremble as I turn the pages.

There’s Anna. Her smile still cuts through the fog.

There’s Emily, age six, missing two front teeth.

There’s me. Younger. Strong. Whole.

“How long have I had it?” I ask.

Emily’s voice catches. “About five years. The last two have been… harder.”

I nod. “I’m scared, Em.”

I bury my face in my hands. “I keep losing you. Over and over again. I forget your faces. I forget your voices. I forget her laugh.” Tears stream down my cheeks. “I don’t want to forget her, Em. I don’t want to forget you.”

“I know.”

“Please don’t let me forget. I never wanted to forget.”

“I know Dad, it’s ok.”

I look at her. “Do I get worse?”

She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t need to.

That night, I wake up on the floor again. My head hurts. There’s blood on my lip. The carpet smells like dust and sweat.

Emily kneels beside me. Her hands tremble on my face.

“It’s okay, Dad,” she whispers.

I don’t recognize her.

She says my name like a prayer.

I scream.

The man comes again. He touches me. I slap him. I cry. I ask for Anna. I ask for help. I ask for death.

Then I forget what I asked for.

They move me to a place with quiet halls and people in matching uniforms.

They smile too wide. They talk too slow.

There are others like me. We shuffle down the halls like ghosts in borrowed bodies.

I meet a woman named June. She calls me Arthur. I don’t correct her. Maybe that's my name.

She holds my hand sometimes. I think we’re in love. Or maybe we used to be.

I find the notepad again in my drawer.

Your name is Thomas.

Your wife Anna is gone.

Your daughter is Emily.

You have dementia.

You are safe.

I don’t believe it, but I read it every day.

One morning, I look in the mirror.

The man stares back at me.

He looks tired. Pale. Hollow. His eyes are wet.

“I miss me,” I whisper.

And the man in the mirror mouths the words back.

Like he knows.

Like he misses me too.