Where the Memories Lie

 

Every time I saw Tom, he seemed to shrink inside himself more. Once a tall, solidly built, active man, he was now stooped and colourless and bony. It broke my heart to see the changes this ravaging disease had forced upon him. I was a nurse, so I knew what death and illness looked like, but when it was someone you loved, it didn’t make you hardened to it. The worst thing was the slow, steady and relentless progression of a disease that would eventually be fatal. From the initial stages of attacking the part of the brain where memories are formed, over years it makes new memories harder to form. Then it spreads to different regions of the brain, killing cells and compromising function. The damage to the areas where emotions are processed then makes it harder for patients to control moods and feelings. Next it wreaks havoc on the senses, even causing hallucinations and delusions, and erasing the oldest and most precious memories of a person. In the last stages it destroys the area of the brain responsible for regulating breathing and the heart. For family members it can be horrific to watch the person you once knew literally change into someone else. Someone who was kind and compassion-ate can become vicious and bitter. Someone who was calm and happy can become angry and spiteful. Sometimes patients have no idea of their surroundings or loved ones. They can’t identify everyday items. They have trouble understanding what is being said or going on around them. They gradually lose their ability to walk, become incontinent, or exhibit unusual behaviour. The symptoms are heartbreaking.

 

Nowadays Tom’s lucid moments were outnumbered by the confusion, although he usually still recognised me. He was asleep, sitting in a comfy foam-padded high-backed chair in front of the window, overlooking the gardens. The newspaper was strewn messily over the surface of the small table in front of him, as if he’d become frustrated with it and flung it down in anger. Next to the 12

 

Where the Memories Lie paper was an intricately carved wooden box that Tom had made for Eve. It was designed with a secret compartment that could only be opened by sliding out and pushing in certain hidden parts of the design in a unique combination. Tom called it a magic box, and Anna had loved playing with it when she was a kid. I could never manage to open it but Anna always could.

 

‘Hi, Tom.’ I sat in an identical chair next to him and patted his hand. Loose skin hung from his fingers.

 

His eyelids fluttered open and it took him a moment to famil-iarise himself with his surroundings.

 

‘Olivia.’ He smiled warmly. ‘Nice to see you. You haven’t been here for ages.’

 

‘I came in two days ago, Tom.’ I patted his hand again and he gripped mine.

 

His eyes narrowed, as if he didn’t believe me. ‘Was that when you—’ He stopped mid-sentence.

 

I waited for a moment. He often forgot what he was talking about in the middle of a conversation, or forgot words. Sometimes he liked to be prompted; sometimes it made him angry.

 

When he didn’t carry on, I said, ‘When what, Tom?’

 

He picked at his trousers with a fingernail, rubbing the same spot over and over. ‘Fucking bastard.’ He stared down angrily at them.

 

Before the disease, I’d never heard Tom swear. Never seen him lose his temper, either. He was the most laid-back person I’d ever known. He never seemed to get stressed about anything. Not anymore, though.

 

‘That fucking bastard stole my trousers.’

 

I stroked his hand. ‘It’s OK, Tom. Don’t worry. I’m here, OK?

 

I won’t let them take your trousers.’

 

He turned to me. ‘You sure? Because they sneak in here at night. No one thinks I know, but I bloody know. I’m not stupid.’

 

13

 

Sibel Hodge