“It’s a beautiful sunny day. Would you like me to come over and take you outside?”
“Okay.” He sounded happy on the phone, at least that’s what I told myself.
“I’ll be there shortly. See you soon. Bye.”
I arrived out of breath and signed in at the Front Desk. I fumbled nervously pressing the keys of the security code to the Memory Unit and walked quickly along the corridor towards the community room where patients congregated to watch television. A raw, rancid odour trickled up my nostrils, and I tried not to inhale.
I gazed around the room expecting to see my husband waiting patiently on me, but he wasn’t there. I noticed a caregiver lounging in a chair, her pink mobile phone cradled in long fingers that sported dagger-like nails emblazoned with dots and hearts.
“Hi, I’m here to take my husband out, but I don’t see him.”
“Oh, you mean George? He’s such a sweet guy. One of my favourites.” She grinned widely revealing enormous white teeth. “In fact, you’re my newest favourite couple!”
“Would he perhaps be in his room?”
“Hon, I thought he was on the phone with you.” She shrugged her shoulders.
“You’re right. We were on the phone. But that was some 20 minutes ago.”
I marched over towards the desk where patients received phone calls. There he was, seated in a wheelchair, and as per usual wearing someone else’s clothes that were far too large for him. My heart beat fast as I attempted to suppress the anger bubbling inside me. So many times I had requested that if they couldn’t find his own clothes, all of which were clearly labelled, that they at least place garments on him that actually fit. I felt my face go red as I noticed how dirty his nails were, and the stubble on his face that evidenced nobody had shaved him in days. He had the receiver up to his ear as if he were chatting to someone.
"Who are you talking to on the phone?"
He turned around, looked up at me and smiled.
"You."
“Who am I?” Lately I had started asking this question, as if to prove to myself that he hadn’t deteriorated.
“You’re my beloved.”
I relaxed, relieved somewhat, and smiled back at him.
“And I’m here, right next to you. I’m not on the phone. I’m here to take you outside to enjoy the sunny weather. Touch my hand.” I stretched out my arm and placed my hand in front of him. “See? I really am not on the phone.”
"But you could be."
He turned away from me, clenched his fingers firmly around the receiver, and proceeded to continue talking on the phone.
“Okay.” He sounded happy on the phone, at least that’s what I told myself.
“I’ll be there shortly. See you soon. Bye.”
I arrived out of breath and signed in at the Front Desk. I fumbled nervously pressing the keys of the security code to the Memory Unit and walked quickly along the corridor towards the community room where patients congregated to watch television. A raw, rancid odour trickled up my nostrils, and I tried not to inhale.
I gazed around the room expecting to see my husband waiting patiently on me, but he wasn’t there. I noticed a caregiver lounging in a chair, her pink mobile phone cradled in long fingers that sported dagger-like nails emblazoned with dots and hearts.
“Hi, I’m here to take my husband out, but I don’t see him.”
“Oh, you mean George? He’s such a sweet guy. One of my favourites.” She grinned widely revealing enormous white teeth. “In fact, you’re my newest favourite couple!”
“Would he perhaps be in his room?”
“Hon, I thought he was on the phone with you.” She shrugged her shoulders.
“You’re right. We were on the phone. But that was some 20 minutes ago.”
I marched over towards the desk where patients received phone calls. There he was, seated in a wheelchair, and as per usual wearing someone else’s clothes that were far too large for him. My heart beat fast as I attempted to suppress the anger bubbling inside me. So many times I had requested that if they couldn’t find his own clothes, all of which were clearly labelled, that they at least place garments on him that actually fit. I felt my face go red as I noticed how dirty his nails were, and the stubble on his face that evidenced nobody had shaved him in days. He had the receiver up to his ear as if he were chatting to someone.
"Who are you talking to on the phone?"
He turned around, looked up at me and smiled.
"You."
“Who am I?” Lately I had started asking this question, as if to prove to myself that he hadn’t deteriorated.
“You’re my beloved.”
I relaxed, relieved somewhat, and smiled back at him.
“And I’m here, right next to you. I’m not on the phone. I’m here to take you outside to enjoy the sunny weather. Touch my hand.” I stretched out my arm and placed my hand in front of him. “See? I really am not on the phone.”
"But you could be."
He turned away from me, clenched his fingers firmly around the receiver, and proceeded to continue talking on the phone.
