Despair With Gift in Dementiaville

I walk into Romeo's room at the nursing home. He lies in bed, eyes closed. I quietly slide a chair to his bedside and sit down. He opens his eyes. I smile. He responds with a quizzical look.

"Who are you?" he asks.

I want to think this is a joke. I want to believe that Romeo is pulling my leg. He's teasing me, isn't he? He knows who I am, doesn't he? He's always recognized me. Surely he knows who I am! Surely he knows we've been married for more than five years! And surely he knows that we each are the love of each other's lifetimes! Right?

Maybe not. I cannot react as if it were a joke, Romeo's not knowing me. If it's true -- if he truly does not know me -- well, I have made a vow to myself that I will always take him seriously when things like this happen. To preserve his dignity. This is what he is entitled to, his dignity.

"I am your wife, Juliet."

"Oh."

"Do you remember me?"

"No."

"It's okay. Can I hold your hand?"

"No."

"Okay. Do you want me to read to you?"

"Yes, that would be nice."

So I read to him. Later, when we have finished the chapter, I ask again if I can hold his hand. This time he says yes. His hold on my hand is nonexistent, but I hold his softly. We sit silently for a while. He is tired and drifts into a shallow sleep, comes back for a few seconds and drifts again.

"Would you like to go to sleep now?"

"Yes," he says.

"Is it okay if I kiss you?"

"Yes."

I kiss him gently on the cheek. He closes his eyes. I leave, holding back oceans of tears.

On the way home I stop at the grocery store. At the entrance is a small display of carnations and beside it a sign:

Need a Lift?
Take a Free Carnation

I recognize this as a gift from the Universe. It could not have communicated any more clearly to me than this, than with this flower. I silently offer my gratitude: "Thank you from the depths of my being." Its response is a wave of love that washes over and through me and surrounds me, embraces me. I smile, close my eyes, inhale that love and hold it inside. "Thank you."

I choose a plump, moist, red carnation. Carnations, the flower of love. Red, the color of love and the symbol of blood and life.

A few minutes later, at home, I fill a vase and place the carnation in it. I put it on the coffee table and sit on the couch. As I admire and study this simple flower, tears come. I cry with abandon. Again. And I know that I am supported and embraced and cared for and loved.