Dementia

Dementia

One day, Mrs. Yolks, a baker's wife, woke up and knew nothing. She was in a dark room, so, she tried to get up and turn on a light. Though, she could think of what to do, she did not know how to do it. It was a strange sensation. She was not having good luck. She felt as if she were experiencing DaDa, or becoming an infant again. She lay in her bed thinking of the layout of her life. Soon, there was some light, from the sunrise, spilling onto her bed. Her husband would not notice her absence until afternoon.
Mr. Yolks never returned, until he had finished the daily baking. When he was done, he would come in and they would go for their daily walk around the neighborhood. She wouldn't be able to go today. She couldn't figure out why she was trapped inside her body. She couldn't remember how to do anything. She silently prayed that God would send someone to check on her. Hopefully, her Arabic friend would drop by this morning. She, usually, just walked on in. Perhaps, she would have some way of understanding what was going on with her. She was not Christian, but of the Muslims. She read the Quaran and visited the Masjid regularly. She believed Islam ways. The Yolks were Catholic, maybe, God would send her priest by, to check on the family. His favorite quote was, "Plus ca change, plus ce la meme chose ..." He said it in, nearly, all of his messages. It meant, "the more things change, the more they stay the same." She was beginning to hope the quote was true. What would happen if she could not remember how to talk, or get up? Would things stay the same? She would be useless to her family. What would happen to her?

Suddenly, a bright light flipped on. A woman wearing blue pants and a blue top rushed in. She grabbed her wrist with her cold hand and looked lovingly in her eyes. "Are we doing okay this morning, Mrs. Yolks?" Then she asks, "Do you remember me? I am Patty, your day nurse." Suddenly, I felt as if I had been stabbed, with a cold dagger, to the heart. One moment, she was at home, snuggled in bed, waiting on friends to drop by. She was smelling fresh baked bread, from the downstairs shop they owned sixty years ago. Now, she was 94, in a cold world with no friends or family. It was all rushing back. She had buried her husband, two sons, and many nieces and nephews. She was alone. Tears trickled down her face in a silent tirade. C'est la vie...that's life.

The End.









Mrs. Baltz, I'm sorry this turned out kind of sad. When I write, the story just takes over.While I was writing, I just thought of my grandmother-and there you go.