Unveiled

Changing the diapers of a fully grown adult is drastically different from removing the soiled diapers of a bawling toddler. The putrid stench emanated in both the scenarios is often indistinguishable to the nose, but when it concerns an adult, it generally comes with a plethora of apologies to the caregiver. Needless to say, it is no nuisance to me. However, my reaffirmations and consolations seldom succeed with the ailing geriatric, whose memory has been plummeting since long before we'd even met.

Mrs. Chowdhury is distant. She seems to have barricaded everyone by an invisible shroud that I am unable to perforate. Perhaps I would have done the same thing, had my brain betrayed me too. At times, she jolts up from her reverie, unable to recall her own name. Having grown very fond of her in the past few months, I often find myself trying to imagine the inexplicable anguish she must feel. An image is often conjured up in my mind of slender tendrils reaching out to each other, only to never quite reach. Other times, the tendrils become entangled, forming a convoluted labyrinth any memory is unable to escape from. Her despondent nature escalates my curiosity, but remains unquenched. After all, how could I unveil the demons of her past if she herself cannot reconcile her dejection with her buried past?

Her usual melancholic demeanor has seemingly experienced a detour today, however. Her frail frame is draped in a gorgeous saree, and the rouge on her wrinkled cheeks is anything but inconspicuous. Her enticing smile exclaims that the recesses of her mind are cooperating. Ecstatic by the sight of her renewed vigor, I proceed to brew some freshly ground coffee for her. Mere moments pass before all chaos ensues.

"I remember! I remember it all now. Please make it stop!" she cries hysterically, decimating the tranquility in our minds we have both just established. My legs whizz past the kitchen counter and are by her side within seconds, already perplexed as to what could have possibly transpired to earn such a reaction. The trembling of her hands intensifies, and I flinch as the teacup breaks free of her grasp and shatters on the mosaic floor. Her entire body is riddled with tremors, reminding me of a deadly earthquake. I soon connect the dots, realising that the tectonic plates of her brain did not stop at connection, but continued to bombard each other, leaving its remnants in ruins. The inexorable howling and shrieking follows, and the furrows in my brows only deepen. Failing to decipher what prompted this meltdown, I hold her to my chest as she grapples to escape my hold. She murmurs something imperceptibly into my shoulders, and pulls back to reveal the whites of her eyes that have now turned to fiery vermillion. As her muscles become slightly lax, I nudge her for answers.

An inexorable discomfort spreads through my veins as she relays to me the answers to all the questions my mind has previously posed. In my haste, I had forgotten to sweeten the coffee, the bitter taste of which not only struck her palate, but also her mind. As if the coffee was the only mediator required for bridging the gap between her neurons, it reminded her of the time her son lashed out at her for forgetting to add sugar to his coffee. Her relationship with her son was incredibly strained, and it was only a few days later that her son's family planned for her to leave their home, a sprawling mansion he deemed his mother's presence to be unworthy of. The animosity her son felt towards her was unconquerable, and he soon came to the realisation that he no longer wished to keep contact with the woman who birthed him. Over the years, as she developed dementia, she made the journey to the very home she was exiled from. Surprised by the new inhabitants of the house, she fell headfirst into the horrors of depression and memory loss. She never saw her son again.

I had always wondered why Mrs. Chowdhury lives alone while suffering from such a debilitating condition, why she never has visitors, why she never speaks of relatives. Dementia is a monster with an insatiable appetite. It robs you of your own name, so it is no wonder that it also robs you of memories of your past life, including memories of the ones you love. Upon disclosure of what led to her current state, however, it may even be proposed that the disease is not always one's enemy. Some memories are better off locked in a box, with the key thrown into the ebbing river. The burden of certain memories is perhaps too bulky to travel with. Memories can make an irksome companion. Mrs. Chowdhury's one was a parasitic leech, which would nibble away at her brain even if the dementia hadn't.

The cruel twist of fate strikes me. Her feeble attempt at uncovering her identity is always superfluous. What a lamentable situation, to not be able to unveil the cherished memories, but to stumble upon the one memory she wishes to forget.    

The writer is currently a student of Pharmaceutical Sciences at North South University.