"I Don't Remember" (Memoir)-Summer 2023

I wrote this memoir piece in the summer of 2023, six months after placing Bill in memory care.

As I enter his room, I sense it’s going to be a difficult day. It’s 10 a.m. and he’s still in his pajamas, even though I had called earlier to remind him I was taking him to lunch. “Why aren’t you dressed,” I ask?

“I don’t remember.” 

As I help him dress, he asks about his watch charger. “It was on your bedside table when I left last week. Remember, I brought you a second one because you lost the first one. What did you do with it?” 

“I don’t remember.” 

Alzheimer’s is the “I don’t remember” disease. It turns a perfectly healthy, intelligent, loving, hard-working man into a bewildered, self-centered, toddler. It turns a loving, healthy wife into an angry, resentful, mentally and physically drained shell. All because “I don’t remember.” 

Some days (and nights) I get phone calls, seven, eight, nine in a row, with him telling me he’s at a National Guard meeting, a church event, or a photo shoot and can’t get home. “How did you get there?” I ask. 

“I don’t remember.” 

Some days, he claims the tv “doesn’t work;” his iPad is “broken;” or his watch is in “multiple pieces.” He used to be the go-to person for fixing electronics. Now, when asked how to operate them, he says, “I don’t remember.”  

In December 2022, I admitted Bill to a nursing home in Galveston. It was the most difficult and heart wrenching decision I’ve made since our marriage. The guilt was overwhelming, but I knew I could no longer keep him safe at home. He couldn’t remember where he was nor where he was going.

His cramped, double-occupancy room contained two beds, two chairs, two tables and a roommate who could cuss loud enough to be heard all the way to Houston. There was barely room for me to sit and visit, let alone have a conversation.

Worse yet, it wasn’t long before Bill learned how to escape. They placed a tracker on his ankle, but soon discovered he could cut it off with his dinner knife. This was not the place for Bill.

In January 2023, I was able to move him to the Richard A Anderson Veteran’s home in Houston. Here he would get the Memory Care he needed, quality medical care, and a large, private room, features I could not afford closer to home. 

My daughter, Shelly, and I were determined to make his room special. We printed and framed dozens of photos of his family and pets and hung them on his walls. Shelly set up a charging station where all his electronic cables were fastened down with Velcro on his bedside table so they wouldn’t get misplaced and were easy to use. I bought him a mini refrigerator so he could have easy access to his favorite drinks and snacks. We brought his 55” TV and a comfy lounge chair from home so he could watch TV; his favorite thing to do. We went home content that we had done everything possible to make his room special. 

On the next visit, I was appalled to find all the pictures scattered on the floor. His electronics and TV remote - vanished. The refrigerator was unplugged and full of warm cokes. “Why did you do this, Bill? Why?” 

“I don’t remember.”      

I tidied the room, stacked the photos into a neat pile, and eventually located his remote and electronics stuffed between smelly socks and t-shirts in his laundry bag. I said goodbye and left. When I reached the car, I put on my seatbelt and wept. 

 How did you drive home,” you ask? 

“I don’t remember.”