F is for forgetting

In ‘The importance of being Ernest’ Oscar Wilde once said, ‘memory is the diary that we all carry about with us’. It is an integral part of our daily routines and of our lives. But what happens if we misplace our diary? What if it gets suffocated under the pile of unnecessary junk that we refuse to dispose of? Our first loves would come and go leaving no trace of their existence, as if they were a sweet dream that managed to escape the world of reality. Our arguments, our mistakes, and our achievements would no longer exist. We would be bed ridden, we would be vegetables, and we would be dependable on everyone apart from ourselves.

Walking along the cracked pavement stones that were lined with beds of pink and yellow flowers I remember feeling confused. We were going to visit grandpa but this wasn’t his house. I remember it as a large grey building that seemed to be caught in the middle of the 1930’s, even though I have since seen photographs that showed it as a dainty and recently painted white modern structure. Perhaps my mistaken grey image was just a reflection on the day itself.
Dad pressed firmly on the loud speaker system and announced our family to the people on the other end. The door abruptly buzzed open and we all entered this unfamiliar territory. Dad stepped in front of us, leading me and mum towards the woman at the reception. He was taking charge and purposely putting on a brave face in the hope that he would fool us both into believing that this situation was just like any other day. As we walked down the hallway in the direction of grandpa’s room my eyes began to prickle with tears. My feet became reluctant to take steps forward and had to be persuaded not to turn around and run back to the safety of the car.
A nurse swept past us as we approached the door. Dad breezily opened it as it if was the door to a restaurant or a pub and we were just going in for a casual drink. He stepped in with us shuffling behind him.
‘Hi Dad! It’s Dave and I’ve bought Jess and Val with me to see you’
I crept out from behind dad and went to sit on the chair at the far side of the room. The word ‘small’ was the word that immediately struck me when I saw this man, my granddad, lying emotionless on the bed in the middle of the room. He just looked so much smaller than usual. He looked different. His skin was a dull grey colour, and he seemed to be sinking into the bed as if he wanted it to take him away. His eyes also seemed grey and were stretched wide but projected no emotion. They turned to focus on me.
‘Who’s this?’
‘That’s Jess your Grand Daughter, dad, remember?’

Dementia is a disease of the brain and can cause severe memory loss and problems with everyday functioning. As Oscar Wilde said, ‘memory is the diary that we all carry about with us’ and my grandpa had lost his diary and he never got it back.