Nothing is fun, everyday is the same in this room, my ceilings fascinate me and I think I know how many strands of fabric there are in my wrapper.

She held my hands in hers as she led me out of the bathroom. In a kind and soothing voice, she said to me, “This is not your bedroom, you have been sitting on the floor of the bathroom”, I followed her lead as I tried with effort to match her youthful steps; I have learnt to rely on her with time. I have no strength in me to fight anymore, she gently tucked me into what I suppose is my bed after administering drugs to me. I asked her where I was and I could tell from the look in her eyes that she was trying hard not to shout at me, through her teeth she answered “you are in your room”. 

I can’t blame her it’s so hard remembering things these days, it’s even a miracle I remember her.

Have I had my breakfast? That quiet understanding voice told me I had. It is just like other times, I wonder how she copes. Times when I am myself, I pray for her, I know I am ill and no medication can help this time.  I am going to die living through semi-sane and sane moments. I need to constantly take my memory support pills and there is a guard by my door so I don’t ever go out (I was told this during one of the times I was lucid enough to understand), it is their way of keeping me safe from myself, lest I go out and don’t find my way back home.

Someone is after my life , they are trying to kill me, there is a conspiracy going on around here that I am going to uncover. I am caught in the web of skilled ritualists, they are going to use my body parts for money, who is going to rescue me, the lady is shoving drugs down my throat , someone is trying to poison me. I feel calmer now, oh! This paranoia, my mind is like a maximum correction facility; my thoughts have sentenced me for life. I feel missing.

There is this vacuum nothing can fill, I want to hide in my head, take solace in my thoughts, but there is nothing there, just emptiness. My room takes a whole new shape, there is a boxlike thing in my room where people play all day, I don’t even understand why they are so happy or why I can’t understand what they are doing. I am holding my head in my hands, the noise from the box is disturbing, I will tell her to help me put it off when she gets back. Nothing is fun, everyday is the same in this room, my ceilings fascinate me and I think I know how many strands of fabric there are in my wrapper.

Oh! There you are sweetheart, I have been looking for you, they keep telling me you are dead, can you tell them we were at home together yesterday, talking to our three kids over a family dinner and you were picking on me in front of them, after which we made sweet love?

I stare into the mirror, my face is all wrinkled, where are all those years that tell the story this face reflects. Someone is standing in front of me saying she is my daughter I don’t know who she is.

There is a word I am trying to remember; I have been trying to remember lots of words actually. I think my tongue has joined in this conspiracy to make me helpless, language has deserted me.

 

N.B: This piece was written imagining what goes on in the head of someone suffering from Alzheimer’s disease.

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Fisayomi Eko-Davies is a lawyer and a knowledge enthusiast. She writes in her spare time and runs www.fisayomi.blogspot.com. She tweets @straightmi

 

Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija.