I always thought that growing old would be blissful. A simple way to live until I would die, watching my children and my grandchildren grow up, and looking forward to their visits. At the end of my life — I always thought that it would be peaceful. Perfect. But what if it’s not?

 I’ve heard of Alzheimer’s and Dementia before. They are diseases that take hold of their victims and suck out their memories, leaving them bone dry and confused about the world that they are in. Maybe I just refused to believe in such a thing because it never hit me personally. Unfortunately, these diseases would haunt me after the day that I talked to her.

            It was a bright sunny day; the white clouds are high in the blue sky. The cool wind tickles my face with a nice breeze. The pink and yellow flowers rustle in their flower beds. The last indication of some sort of life — some sort of world that the people who live in this nursing home can never be a part of again. Frankly, I’m dreading heading into the pure white building that houses the residents. The old people that I volunteered to spend three hours every Wednesday with for some assignment that is supposed to make me appreciate a life a little more.

 I sigh as I open the outside door to the building, wishing that the sun could follow me inside.  Once inside, I ring the doorbell on the second door, waiting for some caregiver to let me in. The door unlocks with a hard clank as a woman in purple scrubs opens it. A half-ass smile is plastered on her face makes me stop in my tracks.

            “Can I help you?” she asks with a fake sweetness that she must have to use every day to greet family members of these people.

            “Yeah, I’m here to volunteer with the activities coordinator.”

She nods courtly and opens the door. “Come on in. Alfonso is over in the corner with a group.”

I nod and follow through, jumping as the door closes tight behind me.  Is this supposed to be a prison? I wonder as I glance around the home.

            I look up to a wide-open space with a big brick fireplace in the center. To the left of me is a desk with medical pamphlets, implying that it’s the nurses’ station. I notice that they tried to recreate the homey feel in a hard place that has locks on every door to keep the residents inside. There’s artwork of boats and homes on the walls and couches gather around the fireplace that is rarely turned on in fear that their clients might forget how fire works and that it burns skin. As I walk past the fireplace, the room opens up to dining chairs and tables that look out onto a patio that stays locked unless it’s warm outside, and even then, everyone is monitored.

Alfonso’s entertaining residents in a small room towards the left. He looks up from what he was doing and waves at me.

            “Alright, everyone, let’s play some kickball,” he states as he places a ball in the middle of the group and the residents start kicking back and forth between the circle. He then walks over to me. “Glad to see you,” he states with glee. “Now, I think that I’m all good with my group. Do you maybe want to go and talk to someone? I know of a couple of ladies who would love that.”

            “Sure,” I state, already tired of being here. Frankly, I was just here to get credit for my high school. Alfonso, smiles at me as if he didn’t hear the blooming boredom in my voice. He then waves his hand to follow him over to some lady with long white hair that was parted in a way to conceal her growing baldness.

            “Irma, this is Rachael.” The lady looks at me through her beady eyes.

            “So?” she huffs. I’m taken aback little by her remark.

            “So, maybe she can hang out with you.” She rolls her eyes and pats the seat next to her. Alfonso smiles and walks away to return to his group. I smile at her, wondering what the heck I was going to say.

“Hi I’m R- “

“I know who you are, I’m not that forgetful.” She interrupts. “Now listen, Rebecca, you seem like a nice girl, but you’re probably like the others around here.”

“Others?” I ask, my interest peaking.

“Yeah, the idiots who locked me up here in this looney bin. I know I don’t belong here. I mean look at that sad group in there.” She points at Alfonso’s group kicking the ball around. I watch as the ball rolls at almost at a snail’s pace around the group. I also see a man standing directly in front of Alfonso, touching his name tag and singing in gibberish. “Repulsive,” she hisses at them with venom dripping from her words. “You know, I used to be a teacher, history. I was well respected, Rebecca.” I didn’t know if I should correct her about my name or not, so I just let it go for the time being.

“Wow, that’s nice!” I pretend to be excited.

“Yeah, I lived through Gettysburg and the Titanic.”

  My eyes widen with curiosity and surprise. “You mean, you taught about Gettysburg and the Titanic.” I tried to correct her.

She glares at me. “No, I lived through Gettysburg and the Titanic.” She states as if it was fact. I suddenly realized that she too had a reason why she was here. Gettysburg happened in 1863 and the Titanic happened in 1912: there is a forty-two-year difference between the two. However, for her to have lived through both of those events, Irma would have to be at least one hundred and fifty- two years old. This is hard to believe since she looks to be about in her eighties. I find it strange that this woman claims that she lived through two major events.

“Wow that’s very impressive,” I state with concern. Now, I was trained that there are certain things that you aren’t allowed to say to these people in fear that you might set them off. The first being, that you don’t mention the disease, and second, if they are as delusional as Irma was, you go along with what they are saying because you don’t want to upset them. I continue with a change of the subject. “So…” once again I’m cut off, but not by Irma. A tall bean poll looking man with big glasses and brown hair walks up to her.

“Hi, mom,” he says. Irma glares at him. “How are you doing?” she continues to stare at him, clearly not knowing who he is.

“Who the hell are you? I’m not your mom,” Irma states and looks away. The guy looks at me as I get up. I get the feeling that I shouldn’t be here while this is going on. I walk away from Irma, leaving this man to work with her. Sitting in another chair, I still watch this conversation play out.  

The man continues, “Oh, don’t be like that mom. It’s me, Jim, remember.” He coos as he sits on the couch next to her and pulls out a picture from his wallet. I can’t see what the photo is, but he starts pointing at it. “See, this was taken the day of your birthday party a couple of months ago. Here’s me, the kids, Barbara and you.” Irma swats at the picture.

“Damn it! I told you that I have no idea who the hell you are!” she yells at him. This causes everyone to stare at Irma as she starts throwing a tantrum. Jim sits by helplessly and watches. The nurses swoop around her and try to calm her down as she continues to cry. “I don’t know you! I don’t know you!”  I watch the pain spread over Jim’s face as he stands up to get out of the way. I get up from my seat and go over to him. He looks at me and tries to hide his pain behind a smile.

“Sorry that you had to see that, kid. Mom’s usually like that. I’m Jim, by the way,” he holds out his hand for me to shake.

            “Rachael,” I say as I shake his hand. “So, I take it that this usually doesn’t happen,” I question.

            “I wish that I could say no, but she practically doesn’t know who I am anymore. She’s been here for about four months and already, I’ve stopped bring the wife and kids. The little ones wouldn’t understand why their grandmother doesn’t remember them. I stopped bringing my wife; it’s too sad for her.”

I watch as Irma is still being coddled by nurses. “Can I ask what she has?”

            “Stage six,” he doesn’t hesitate. He pauses with the second part. “Alzheimer’s,” he explains with sadness.  Stage six, the stage where their personalities change, they don’t know who they are or who any family members are. They basically become a different person. The nurses have decided to get Irma up and are taking her somewhere. Maybe to her room, I don’t know.  My heart breaks for her and the family that is shattered because of this disease. Jim stares down the hall where his mother was taken, I can see his eye lids close, trying to block the tears that are forming in the corner of his eyes. He quickly takes his hand and wipes away the fallen liquid.  “Alright, well I guess that’s the end of the visit.” He sighs. “Thank you for talking to my mother.” I smile wishing there was more I could say. I wish that I could do more.

            Jim smiles at me and walks away, a nurse lets him out. I stand there, replaying what just happened in my head.  How could a mother not remember her own son? How could a disease do this to someone? Pain wells up in my body, for a family that I barely know. I stand there wishing there was something that I could do. Unfortunately, Alzheimer’s is incurable for the moment. I know that Irma will get worse and her son will come every day and watch as his mother, the woman who used to cradle him, turns into nothing more than a sack of flesh, bones, and organs that hopefully don’t forget how to work. I know that she will insist I sit with her. We will play cards as she would talk about the history that she has supposedly lived through. She remembers the facts of those historical events but not the memories of her children, grandchildren, or her husband who past ten years before she was placed here.  Eventually, her organs forget how to function. The nurses find her dead in her bed a few months later. I think that she is the last person I will meet with these diseases. I am wrong.

At the time, little did I know in a few years, my own Abuela would not remember me as she is pulled off of life support. Her eyes will not light up as I enter the room as they used to. She will not call me her clone, though, I look like a doppelganger of the young woman she once was. My other grandmother will die in the same way, but she will think she died a young girl. My childhood friend will deal with going and visiting her grandfather at a home where every day at the stroke of 2 p.m., he will get upset looking for his wife who died four years ago. Like clockwork, he will ask for her. And every time, they have to remind him that she passed away. Every time, he cries out to her. But in the morning, he will forget. Every story I’ve heard makes a question linger, where have the memories gone?