REMEMBER ME

REMEMBER ME

Chapter One

        Aunt Sarah must have absorbed all the colors in the spectrum when she opened her eyes and saw light for the first time. She was filled with certain energy that made her light up any room she entered. Her life was as colorful as the rainbows she always chased in pursuit of her dreams--dreams that often came true.  But then. . .she stopped dreaming . . .because she forgot how.

* * *

          What I admired most about Aunt Sarah was her youthful and vibrant personality, with a powerful mind to match. Some people thought she had a photographic memory, never forgetting any name or face, and always beating the contestants on Jeopardy—her favorite game show. She would be walking by, hear the question, then casually deliver the answer before the contestants could. You would not dare challenge her in Trivial Pursuit, or Scrabble, or puzzles.  "Why don't you enter Jeopardy?" the family always urged her. "You could make a lot of money and become famous, like Ken Jennings. Why, he's almost as famous as Alex Trebek."

        "I'd probably freeze once I'm on stage," she would reply with a shrug. "Wouldn't that be the most humiliating experience?"

        In high school, Aunt Sarah once attempted to narrate Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" word for word. After about five hundred words, her teacher interrupted her, and said, "That's nice, Sarah, but I only wanted you to summarize the story and tell the class what you think about it."

        "I knew what I was supposed to do for the assignment," explained Aunt Sarah. "I was being pedantic, trying to impress my teacher, but it backfired. The class laughed at me. I froze. I was so traumatized that I suffered from stage fright for years."

        I saw no trace of any stage fright when I watched Aunt Sarah make a presentation in Roman art, history and culture to a huge audience at the Denver Art Museum. I was awed by her poise and speaking skill, but she looked like a living porcelain sculpture on stage, and I wondered if her audience was captivated by her narration or by her beauty.

        Once, I spent my school career day with Aunt Sarah. More than ever, I idolized her and wanted to be just like her in every way. We shared the same genes, so I could become as pretty as her; but forget the fitness guru body. I hated exercising and I loved junk food way too much.

        It was not surprising that Aunt Sarah's organizational and interpersonal skills would land her a museum and gallery administration job right after college. Eventually, with an M.A. in art history, and museum education, she was one of the most sought after professionals in the field.

        One day, she came to the house with the news that both elated and saddened me. "I got the job at the Smithsonian Institute," she exclaimed. The first thing that came to mind was that she would be moving away from Colorado. "It's an opportunity no one can refuse," she said, hardly containing her excitement. "I would be responsible for the Institution's programs of research grants, fellowships, and other scholarly appointments. Imagine ...I will be going to different museums, universities, and other research institutions around the world."

        "That's great," Mom said to her younger sister. "But this means we won't be seeing you much anymore."  I shared Mom’s disappointment and sadness.

        Aunt Sarah gave Mom a hug. "I'm only a mouse click away," she said. "And I will be choosing flights that would allow a lay over in Denver, so we'll still see each other often."

        "But how about Mark? I thought you were planning to get married soon?"

        "We are; it's just going to be delayed a while. We'll sell the condo, and we'll both move to Washington, D.C. He's an IT consultant. He can live anywhere and work at home."

* * *

        But Aunt Sarah’s visits did not come as often as she had promised, and her emails were always short. But we collected tons of hotel postcards with brief notes from her international travels, and we often wondered where the next card would be coming from.

        Three years later, I was ecstatic when Aunt Sarah called and announced she was coming back. Mom and I drove to the Denver International Airport to pick her up, but she wasn't on the flight she gave us. "She missed her flight," the agent informed us. "She didn't rebook."

        Aunt Sarah had flown all over the world a hundred times, and I had never heard of her missing a flight even once. We called her cellular several times, but only got her voice mail. We called Mark. No answer either. Something strange was definitely going on..

        When we got home, we found Aunt Sarah at the front door. It was winter, with six inches of snow on the ground, and she was only dressed in a warm-up suit. She had lost a lot of weight, and uncharacteristically devoid of any make-up. She was always so fashionable. I had never seen her look so plain before.  She looked much older than thirty-eight.  I also noticed she didn't have any luggage with her; I figured they were on the flight she missed.

        "I forgot my keys," she declared. I ran to her and hugged her tight. "Hello, Ariana. How are you my darling? You look so grown up ...and so beautiful." Her lips on my cheeks felt like ice.

        Mom rushed to open the door. "Why didn't you call us once you arrived?"

        "I lost my cell phone at the D. C. airport."

        Aunt Sarah forgetting and losing something? Preposterous! I had never heard her ask if anyone had seen her keys, or her cell phone, or anything before.  Mom, on the other hand, was always looking for her keys, purse, glasses, phone numbers, appointment notes, driver's license, credit cards. Dad often teased her about it. "You spend half your life looking for something," he said. "I swear, if your boobs weren't attached to your chest you'd forget you had them." Mom would reply jokingly, "Be kind to me, I'm having an Alzheimer's moment."  I didn’t know much about Alzheimer’s, but I always enjoyed their bantering.

        "I'm tired," Aunt Sarah said softly once she got warmed up in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, with a mug of hot cocoa in hand. "It's been such a long day."

          "Would you like Ariana to start a warm bath for you?" Mom looked like she had a thousand questions to ask her. I was glad she suppressed her inquisitive nature and waited for Aunt Sarah to voluntarily explain what was going on.

        She didn't respond about the bath question. "I couldn't handle the pressure anymore. I quit Smithsonian." She took a deep breath and stared down at the ceramic for a moment, then said almost in a whisper, "Mark and I broke up."

        I couldn't decide which was more shocking: Aunt Sarah quitting the dream job she loved so much, or breaking up with the love of her life. I had always thought she and Mark were perfect for each other -- the yin and yang, the opposites that made relationships work, shine and last, like light and dark, AC and DC. We all adored Uncle Mark, and we were disappointed by the news.

         Later that night I overheard Aunt Sarah talking to Mark on the phone; she was crying. Something about the sound of her voice led me to believe that the breakup was against her will.

* * *

        A few months went by without any enlightenment as to the mystery of Aunt Sarah's return. The initial joy of having her back was quickly replaced by worries and confusion. We kept our patience, hoping that she would voluntarily answer all the obvious questions, but they only multiplied.  She soon moved to Vail--two hours away from us.  She only invited us once to her apartment, and that was during a family skiing trip a few weeks after she moved. She once worked as a weekend skiing instructor while in college, but she was not interested in skiing with us. She was always the neatest person I'd ever known, but the apartment was a total mess. There were unopened shipping boxes everywhere. The refrigerator was practically empty, and there were only paper plates and plastic utensils on the kitchen counter.

          "I'm sorry for the mess," she said apologetically. "I've been busy with my consulting work."

        I sneaked into her office and found only a desk, a laptop, and a printer. There were unopened mail and packages all over the floor. I ran a finger on the dust-covered laptop and opened it. I turned it on, but it wouldn't boot. What had she been doing all this time?

        The answer would finally come several months later. Mom was convinced that Aunt Sarah was suffering from severe depression because of her breakup with Mark, so she called him one night. Curiously, he would not answer any of Mom's questions; instead, he immediately flew in the following day. Unlike Aunt Sarah, he maintained his superb health and Tom Hanks good looks. His eyes, however, projected extreme sadness, and his actions and words resonated unchanged love and affection for Aunt Sarah.

        "It started two years after we moved to D.C.," Mark explained. "She had become moody, suspicious, forgetful, and unaffectionate.  I understood how demanding, hectic and stressful her job was, so I found all kinds of excuses for the changes in her behavior. "

          "That's not the Sarah we know," Mom gasped. "I can't believe it."

          "I know. I couldn't believe it either. I love her, and I forgave all of it, including her untidiness around the apartment; the forgotten lunch or dinner plans with me--"

          "You're describing someone alien to us," Mom said, almost in tears. "She had lost a lot of weight. Had she seen a doctor about all this?"

          "I don't know; although I'd seen all kinds of cryptic reminders on the refrigerator, some with her personal physician."

          "Cryptic? What do you mean?"

          "Well ...some were written in acronyms, and some in language foreign to me. One day I saw an unrecognized name of a man. I began to suspect that she was being unfaithful to me; that she was having an affair. I looked up the name..."

         Overcome with emotion, Mark started shaking. Mom was agitated and grabbed him on both shoulders. "What is it, Mark? What is it?"

        Mark looked Mom straight in the eye, tears now rushing down his face. I held my breath. "Sarah was seeing a neurologist ... specializing in mental disorder."

        The news came crashing down on us. I was dismayed and speechless. Mom froze in horror; her cheeks turned white. Dad wrapped a sympathetic arm around her shoulders.

          "She was seeing a doctor specializing in Alzheimer's disease," Mark said in a broken voice.

          "No!" Mom screamed. "Oh, please God, no." She began to sob. 

        It was difficult to imagine that the woman's powerful brain was dying. The most beautiful and incredible part of Aunt Sarah was being eaten away by an incurable disease, cell by cell.

          "She told me she was going to live with you," Mark continued. "I begged her to stay. I wanted to be with her, take care of her through the end. She refused vehemently. She left me without saying goodbye. She called me periodically, and assured me each time that her illness was under control through medication, and that you've been a great help to her."

          "We didn't see her often enough to suspect anything,” Dad said.  Mom was floundering in a depth of agony and could not speak. “We thought she was just depressed about your break-up."

          "I'm so sorry,” Mark replied. “I've thought about coming back here, but she made me promise not to; that it would just be harder on her.  So I didn’t.”

        The conversation was interrupted by the shrill sound of the wall phone ringing. No one felt like getting up to pick up the phone till the answering machine was activated.

          "Hello. This is an emergency call from the Vail Police Department," the booming voice said.

        Mom sprang to her feet and ran to the phone in the kitchen. We all followed and hovered nervously around her.  "Hello! Hello!" she said breathlessly.

          "Hello, this is Sergeant Kolawski of the Vail Police Department. Do you know a Sarah Young living in Vail?" The answering machine was recording, and we could hear everything through the speaker. We hung on to every word the cop said.

        "Yes, she is my sister. What about her?" Mom's voice was shaking competitively with the rest of her body. I coiled my arm around her waist to steady her, prepared for the worst.

        "She is fine. But we found her wandering in the dark, dazed and confused. She can't remember where she lives. We found your name and phone number engraved on her Alzheimer's bracelet."

        Aunt Sarah--the woman who used to instruct countless people what to do did not know how to call us; the woman who had traveled the world could not find her way back home.

          "We'll come and pick her up. We'll take her home," Mom said, looking strangely relieved.

* * *

        The colors in the spectrum of Aunt Sarah's brain were slowly fading away. Someday, that brilliant light in her eyes would be gone, and she would no longer recognize me. She would look into my eyes, trying to decipher the countenance of the person who admired her intensely, and who wanted to be just like her. She would shake her head, as if it pained her from trying to remember me.

~~o0o~~

A year later. . . .

         With Aunt Sarah’s Alzheimer’s still in its early stage, and with a part-time maid, she had been able to manage relatively well without any major incidence, as long as she remembered to take her medication. We disposed of the help when I moved in during summer vacation to take care of Aunt Sarah.  Mom joined us every weekend. It was only a two-hour drive from home. 

         One morning, I was still asleep when she walked down to the grocery store, wearing only her silk pajamas and house slippers. She picked up a few breakfast items, and tried to leave without paying. She got into a nasty argument with the salesclerk till the kindly gentleman owner came out and intervened. After recognizing her, the owner who knew us well immediately called to advise me of the situation. I rushed to the store, paid for the groceries, and expressed my gratitude to the owner.  He promised to educate his employees about Aunt Sarah’s condition. During the drive back to the condo, Aunt Sarah was still incensed. “Do I look like a thief to you? I will never shop at that store again …never! That stupid boy!  I will have him fired.”

         As soon as we got home and she got seated in front of the television with a wool blanket wrapped around her, she seemed to have forgotten all about the incident and watched CNN. During her pre-Alzheimer’s days, she was a political and news junkie who used to watch only the Fox News Network. She believed Fox provided the most fair and balanced news, as opposed to the rest of the networks.  She would also schedule her treadmill runs to coincide with her favorite news talk radio programs so she could listen to conservative political commentators like Sean Hannity, Rush Limbaugh, and Glenn Beck. Since Alzheimer’s affected her mind, she no longer cared about any of them.  In fact, I never thought I would see the day when she would watch Jerry Springer with utmost fascination and merriment.

         I cooked the sausages, fried a few eggs, and made Aunt Jemima pancakes from the box that she had just bought this morning. She never used to eat sausage or bacon, and definitely never cooked anything from a mix before.  “Breakfast is ready, Aunt Sarah,” I announced.

          “I’m not hungry,” she said, seeming agitated at what she was watching – an interview with Hillary Clinton. She mumbled something incoherently and I wondered if she’d ever change her unfavorable views toward Hillary like she did with CNN and Springer.

         I ate breakfast alone and saved her portion in the refrigerator. I doubted she’d ever eat it.

         Later in the afternoon, I heard the washer and dryer running while I was in the bathroom cleaning off Aunt Sarah's hairs from the sink and the mirror. I wondered if her medical condition was causing her beautiful hair to fall out. There was a time when she would react horribly if she saw a single strand of hair in the sink or the floor. Her bountiful and shiny hair was her crowning glory, as far as she was concerned, and she cared for it like a diamond-studded tiara. I stepped out of the bathroom and into the laundry room to check on the machines. Not surprisingly, both were empty, and the two basket hampers on the floor were full of her dirty laundry. I was not going to tell her what happened, but she caught me putting her clothes in the washer. “What are you doing?” she barked at me with her eyes narrowed dangerously to a slit. “Haven’t I told you that I don’t want anybody else doing my laundry”

         Before I could respond, the phone rang. It was my Mom.  “This is not a good time, Mom,” I whispered.  “If you’re going to ask her again to move in with you, you’re wasting your time.” 

         Aunt Sarah must have heard me and quickly snatched the phone from my grip.  “Once and for all, I am not moving in with you. I am not an invalid. I can take care of myself. Goodbye!” With a look of formidable anger Aunt Sarah slammed the receiver on its cradle. 

         Accustomed now to Aunt Sarah’s explosive fits of temper, I learned that such anger fizzled out quickly. She would feel remorseful and apologize to whomever she had just offended.

         Grabbing her wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses from the kitchen counter, she made her way out to the deck and dropped her statuesque figure onto the lounge chair. She picked up her favorite book—Jane Eyre--from the bamboo magazine rack on the floor beside the chair. She must have read the novel a hundred times in her life, and even memorized some of her favorite lines; but lately she occasionally forgot the name Charlotte Bronte. She found the dog-eared page and opened the book, only to set it on her lap and gaze absently at the view of the majestic mountains. She would stay there immersed in the splendorous scene for hours.

         I waited a few minutes before I stepped out onto the deck with a tube of sunscreen in one hand and a soft blanket in the other. By this time, Aunt Sarah had regained her composure and greeted me with a sweet smile. How I missed that smile. “Thank you, Ariana,” she said softly. I nodded, signifying everything was all right; to forget what happened earlier, and that she should simply relax and enjoy the scenery. I bent over her and started applying crème all over her body with gentle strokes. Her skin was milky white, creamy, and silkier than mine. “I look so pale,” she protested. “No matter how much time I spend out here in the sun, I never get a tan. Maybe I should stop using sunscreen.”

         “And get skin cancer?” I snapped, realizing instantly the stupidity of my attempted joke.

         Aunt Sarah’s eyes sparkled with grim delight.          “Wouldn’t that be great,” she exclaimed. “Death would be far quicker than this disease that’s slowly eating away at my brain.” Her voice softened as she gazed at the horror that washed over my face. She leaned forward and cupped my face between her cold hands. “I’m sorry, my dear,” she said after kissing me on the forehead. “Sometimes I forget that this is hard on you, too.” Her emerald eyes bore the original light I had grown to envy until Alzheimer’s caused them to fade into a dull and lifeless hue of green.  How I missed those famous eyes that used to absorb everything and miss nothing; those eyes that expressed wordless arguments, and dared any opponent to enter the window to her eyes and take a peek at the distant recesses of her mind to see what lurked there.

         Since the incident last year when she got lost, the gossips spread quickly about her illness. She became a curiosity to some people who were stunned that someone so young could have Alzheimer’s. One time a new friend who turned out to be a journalist invited her for dinner.  Aunt Sarah was brimming with joy. “She is so wonderful," she said when I picked her up. "And what a marvelous feast she prepared just for the two of us. We talked for hours and shared secrets with each other. I love this woman. I hope she could be my friend for a long time.”

        That weekend, the front page of the health section of the Sunday paper contained an extensive story on Alzheimer’s disease. And there it was, in vivid color, Aunt Sarah’s picture, and the heading: She Could Not Find Her Way Home.  For a while, the experience took an emotional toll on her, but eventually, she forgot about the whole episode.

        I surprised myself with the amount of patience I had with Aunt Sarah. My parents had never yelled and castigated me the way she had, but I knew it wasn’t her who was yelling at me; it was the disease. She had no control of it. I had to remind myself of this every time she darted those angry eyes at me. I also prayed a lot …for me, and for her.

        Aunt Sarah levered herself out of the long chair, grabbed the blanket, and wrapped it around her as she paced back and forth. I wondered what she was thinking now.

          “I think it’s time I considered a professional caregiver,” she said without looking at me.

        Her words stunned me. “Why, Aunt Sarah? Haven’t I done a good job caring for you?”

        She turned to look at me. Her eyes bore sadness. “More than a good job, my dear. I know I will never find someone who could give me the same care that you’ve given me. But I can’t bear the way I treat you sometimes. It’s deplorable. I love you too much to hurt you like that.”

          “But I know you don’t mean to hurt me, Aunt Sarah. You do not have control over this disease that makes you act that way.”

          “You are such a wonderful girl. You should be enjoying your personal life instead of caring for me. You are a very beautiful girl who should be going out on dates and having a romantic relationship; instead, you live with me, swallowing all the nasty shit I throw at you.”

          “There’s plenty of time for friends, Aunt Sarah. At this point, all I want is to be here for you, and to help you manage your health and your life in the best possible way that you and I can.”

        Retrieving a cigarette from the ashtray on the side table, she proceeded to light it with a match. She drew hard on the cigarette, and I watched her instantaneously convulse in a fit of coughing. When she calmed down I handed her a glass of water. This happened almost every day. “I don’t smoke, do I?” she asked.

          “No, you don’t.”

          “Then why the hell do I have cigarettes here?”

          “Because you think you smoke and you buy them.”

          “Well, throw them away. They’re disgusting.”

          “I will.” I knew she would look for them tomorrow and demand to have them back. “For now, we have to finish this caregiver discussion. If you think you’re sparing me the heartaches of your temper and insults, you’re wrong. You will be hurting my feelings more if you replaced me with someone who doesn’t even know you, and cannot love you the way I do.”

        I thought I saw her eyes brim with tears before she looked away from me. She straightened, squared her shoulders that caused the blanket to drop on the floor, exposing her attractive long legs. The breeze caused the white cotton fabric of her dress to flatten against her body as she slowly walked a few steps away facing the mountains. She always looked forward to this time of day when the sun started to descend behind the mountains and the sky began to change colors.

        When she turned to face me again, her figure was spectrally glowing from behind by the setting sun. It was mesmerizing. She looked like an angel approaching me. But her face depicted nothing angelic about it. She looked stern, harsh and unwavering. “Listen to me,” she demanded. “My decision is final. Tomorrow, I want you to contact a caregiver agency to start sending pre-screened and qualified applicants over for interview. And I want someone who is intelligent enough to carry a conversation with me; who can manage my administrative needs; who knows the area and can drive anywhere.  You know how important that is to me.”

        She was decisive. It was one of those moments when I knew there was nothing else I could say to make her change her mind. It broke my heart to think that someone else would be taking my place. Defeated in the battle of reasoning, I cried as I gave in and nodded in agreement.

        This time, Aunt Sarah allowed me to see her tears fall before turning away again. Quietly facing the setting orb, she would remain standing there, her hands on the wooden railing … watching time go by in slow motion.



(continued to chapter two)