“I painted you as you might be. So I’ll recognize you even when you don’t recognize yourself.”
I studied the painting carefully. The confusion in my eyes. The slight tilt of my head. Like I was trying to remember something just out of reach.
“Show me the rest.”
“I’ll recognize you even when you don’t recognize yourself.”
He showed me 2028. In that painting, I was looking at our daughter with uncertain eyes.
“This is when you might start having trouble with faces.”
Then 2029. In that one, I was sitting in a chair, staring at nothing.
“Significant cognitive decline,” Henry whispered.
“And 2032?”
He hesitated before showing me. In the painting, my eyes were distant. In the corner, Henry had written:
“Even if she doesn’t know my name, she will know she is loved.”
In the painting, my eyes were distant.
I started crying. I picked up a pencil from the workbench. My hands were shaking, but I steadied them.
Beneath his words, I wrote:
“If I forget everything else, I hope I remember how he held my hand.”
Henry read it and pulled me close.
“I’m scared, Henry. What if I forget our children?”
“Then I’ll tell you about them every day.”
“What if I forget you?”
“What if I forget our children?”
He kissed my forehead. “Then I’ll introduce myself every morning. And I’ll fall in love with you all over again.”
“I’m going to fight this. As hard as I can.”
“I know you will. And I’ll be right beside you.”
***
The following day, I called the doctor myself.
“I want to know everything. All the details Henry’s been protecting me from.”
The doctor explained the treatment options. The experimental drug trial. The costs.
I called the doctor.
“Your husband is prepared to spend your life savings on this.”
“I know.”
“And what do you want?”
“I want to try. I want every extra day I can get with my family. With Henry.”
“Then we’ll start next week.”
The doctor also suggested I write things down. So I started a journal.
Leave a Comment