Guess That Is How I Know You - Chapter 41: Chapter 41

I remember when I was in my twenties and I had just met you. I was so young then, and you seemed so put together. How easy it was to let myself be drawn to you. Suddenly I felt once again like the child who used to run after those fireflies in a warm night—they were always warm, those nights at my family's farm—only you were not quite as easy to catch.
I did catch you though, or better yet, you caught me, didn't you?
Eventually there were no more lies and deception, no more fighting the pull that always managed to make us come together regardless of how many times we both pushed each other away. And at last, you caved, after three years' worth of complications and drama, life finally truly started for me.
But those years are long gone now, and I miss you terribly. I always make sure to remind myself you were worth the pain and suffering I eventually came to endure. I had ten Valentine's with you, and they were each as memorable as the first one.
The remorse is still very much palpable, whenever someone tells me how fortunate I was to have had you for so long.
I do not feel fortunate, I do not feel I had long enough. In fact, time and again I wish I had had more time with you. More often than not, I will hear a murmur in the back of my mind. It is your voice whispering I am entitled to feel ill-treated by the universe even if people tell me otherwise—that is just something you would say.
The thing is you are not here, not anymore. And thinking about your absence brings it back into surface, the guilt. Guilt for being the one that remained. You parted first, soon, and unexpectedly. You had no clue that day would turn out to be your last—although I bet you lived it to its fullest, that was just your way, wasn't it?
But most of all, I envy you for you were not the one who had to endure life on your own.
I should not have to feel all those things, because you were supposed to be by my side, you promised me that much.
Sometimes, as I sit at the bench in front of your headstone, I hope that maybe, just maybe, you are somewhat keeping that promise.
I used to think how morbid it seemed to visit someone's grave, that was before you left. Somehow along the way it became a ritual, sitting by your tombstone in silence, reminiscing.
Other times, throughout the memories, my anger takes place, and my eyes get hot, and the tears gather making my vision turn blurry. During those times I fight to keep the tears at bay as a last resort of convincing myself I am not half as broken inside as everyone seems to believe—they are right though, I am shattered, and no glue or duct tape can manage to keep the pieces together.
This bench became my companion throughout weekends, holidays, or any other free time really. After you died there was just nothing else that managed to fulfill the void. God knows I tried. You know I tried.
Year after year I watched as the grass turned green, and orange, and gray, and then not there at all, until it became green again.
For a while I took flowers with me, until the day I realized you would have hated it. You were never one for flowers. They were beautiful in a painting sure, but close to your nose they became nothing but a nuisance. I bought some fake ones instead and left them in that sapphire-blue Viennese vase that had once furnished our dining room, your favorite.
For many years I visited your grave, religiously almost, to the point I had forgotten how long you had truly been gone. Until today.
Today, sitting on this bench while facing your last resting place covered in new patches of green, I took notice of the date engraved on the white marble and realized I had, since your passing, undoubtedly outlived our time together.
I do not know if you can see me from wherever you are. But as I sat by your tombstone I looked down to the grass where you supposedly rested, then decided it was more fitting to look up instead and I smiled. Not a happy smile. No. Never happy. Not since losing you—sorry, I know you would have hated it—but a smile, nonetheless.
Somehow, I felt a little bit less broken inside, I guess thank you is in order, I just know you have something to do with it.
But enough with the reminiscing. There is something I need to tell you.
I was in the middle of a lecture when it happened, swiftly and without notice.
I was looking at the whiteboard I had been writing on, but I could not recognize any of the words. I turned to the students, but their faces quickly became indistinguishable, they were blurry, and I was no longer able to recognize any of their once familiar faces no matter how vigorously I blinked.
Their voices sounded distant, as if I were under water, not even my own voice made sense to me, I could feel myself opening and closing my mouth, but nothing came out, or at least I could not hear it.
I knew it was not much to do with my hearing for I could clearly listen to the booming sound of my heart going faster with each heartbeat, and the way my breath became ragged alongside it.
Just as I thought my head could not get any lighter until I unavoidably passed out, my surrounding changed again.
The imaginary dome had been lifted. The voices were close and clear, their faces, some confused others concerned, were all very much focused on my every move, watching as if I were an animal at the zoo. Before I realized it, my assistant was by my side—I am sure you would have liked her—gently touching my arm, and in her eyes only one thing was clear.
A bitter taste took over my mouth as I rested my hand on hers—much like you had so often done to sooth my nerves—in an attempt to provide some sort of assurance, even if it was vain and far-fetched.
We locked eyes for a brief second and that was all we needed to communicate. It was a silent yet just as somber realization. There was no denying it any longer, there was only one plausible answer for those ten never-ending seconds of agony.
That had happened just a little over a month ago when my mind went AWOL and during a lecture, nonetheless!
That was also why I found myself looking out the passenger's window watching the lampposts pass me by earlier this week.
The past couple months had been odd to say the least. At first, I took the lack of recollection as a sign of tiredness and stress. Although deep inside this malfunctional brain of mine I knew better than to be hopeful.
I had gone through a battery of exams which results I had cowardly avoided. But after that embarrassing lecture, I could not keep on postponing the inevitable—it wouldn't be long before more people realized what was happening with me, which is why this was most definitely my last year in a classroom.
That same day I called the clinic to set an appointment. Not that I would in fact need the doctor to explain the results, I was perfectly capable of understanding it on my own, you know how I am. But I knew the familiar face would help me digest the agonizing truth.
It was my associate, the one I told you about, who had taken me to the clinic that evening. I no longer trust myself to drive. I am often too scared to do so seeing as my head seems so frequently elsewhere—that is, when it is even there to begin with.
The truth is, I have come to grow too acquainted with those symptoms to keep relying on myself. But I could not muster saying it out loud though, as if by speaking up it became realer. Yet as I sat at that familiar waiting room one word kept repeating itself in my mind.
Alzheimer.
I almost did not catch the neurologist calling my name that afternoon. As I walked inside the woman's office, the sorrow in the doctor's eyes holding onto the stack of exams uttered more of a diagnosis than any words ever would—you know how transparent she can be at times.
For a while we sat facing each other in total silence, I too scared to hear the verdict, and the doctor too somber to be the one to deliver such dreadful news.
During those agonizing minutes of quiet, I took notice she was the closest person I had to you, only the two of us ever knew the real you, not even your sister could say that.
I recall breaking the ice with something along the lines of, "Jesus, Miranda, just tell me already! It's not like you haven't said sourer words to me before." And the doctor in return let out a half-hearted laugh.
I suspect she knew I was only pretending to be strong for the sake of our friendship—I had done it many times before, especially since you were gone.
We nurtured our bond throughout the years, even after your passing, even though many would have pegged our friendship to be unorthodox, unthinkable even—I like to think you would have approved.
It did not take her long to think of a comeback, "I don't think I have ever uttered harsher words towards you before." I bet the incredulous face looking back at her told a different story.
The doctor soon disagreed with my unspoken banter, "That's not the same, Remi. That had to do with feelings. Those faded with time, but this, this is for good." As if what she had once felt for you could have ever been gone.
"Faded with time, you say. Yet we both loved the same person and although she may be gone, I think we shall never stop. Well, at least now we know I will eventually forget all about her." My voice faltered after that. The realization that my dearest memory, you, would be lost once the illness took over.
After that, the doctor decided best to rip the band-aid off.
She went on explaining about the various possible treatments, in my case, the experimental ones. We both knew the fact I was showing signs of the Alzheimer so early in my life meant it would only be more aggressive.
Miranda tried to convince me of the fact we were lucky to have caught it at such an early stage—as if it were a comfort somehow.
It did not change the fact I will most likely still eventually lose all memory of you. And if I cannot remember the moments that made me who I am, then whatever is left of me in the end will assemble not much more than an empty vessel—that was the first thing to cross my mind as the doctor explained our options.
I was able to convince Miranda we could wait a few more days—she has found me a trial already—, you know how she can be stubborn, but in this case, I guess she understood my motives. I could not leave, not without telling you first.
She is shipping me to the other side of the country, guess she has finally managed to find a way to stay between us.
The realization I am indeed leaving is probably why yesterday, I ended up dreaming of you, sort of—I think I am too scared to leave with the notion I am likely to never come back.
In this dream I found myself in your old living room—the one from your apartment close to campus, back from when we had first met—but it did not feel real, I could not recognize it while in the dream.
There was a fog making it hard for me to breath properly. I had half a mind to panic, but I was too intrigued by the unknown figure in front of me—no surprises there, I guess.
I could feel it in my bones I should have been able to recognize the face staring back at me, but there was no use in trying, I could not remember who it belonged to.
I was too focused on the uncanny tingles on the tip of my fingers and on the soft lines on the stranger's face, which seemed to tell a story I was supposed to have known already. Nevertheless, I eventually got enough of a grip to hear the oddly familiar voice talking to me.
"Isn't it unfortunate?" The stranger inquired, but I had no idea what I was supposed to be feeling. A soft pitiful smile was thrown my way.
Everything around me suddenly seemed to be moving closer. That stupid expensive odd-looking couch you loved hit the back of my knees forcing me to sit back as the dark wooden floor vanished from under my feet, although the stranger seemed unfazed by the change of surrounding.
"Who are you?" I asked eagerly, I was out of breath, and knew deep within myself, I did not have much time left with the stranger, and for a reason I was not aware of at the time, I felt more of a sorrow about it than about my lack of air.
Some say you never forget how someone makes you feel—I hope I never forget how you made me feel.
The stranger evoked deeply rooted feelings out of me, yet I was unable to remember the person with the sooth looking features standing in front of me.
"Alzheimer really is a bitch." As the stranger chucked bitterly, I was reminded of my worst evil. "Tell you what, I can either help with your breathing, or give you back the one memory you yearned for so long to preserve."
The stranger's offer was tempting, yet how was I to know if the memory was worth dying for when I no longer knew what it was to begin with? I could only remember longing to be able to keep it.
"Something inside me keeps screaming at myself to remember you. Guess I better trust my instincts. You choose." A leap of faith was my final act, and as requested the stranger chose for the remnant of the woman who had once been me, the one who no longer remembered her past.
I felt a pang of agony in my lungs, just it was not for lack of breathing but rather for how intensely the memory struck me. And just like that I woke up shaking and sweating in my bed, with only one thought crossing my mind.
I was glad I could remember the stranger. I was glad I could remember you.
That dream had gotten me up along with the sun.
It was serenely early when I got out of bed, it usually was though. I had come to like to stare myself in the mirror while the sun is still shy. It is my sneaky way of playing myself, while our old bathroom is not half as lit with the natural light, especially if the only source of light is the one coming through that foggy bathroom window you hated—I have not cared to clean it in months, the will never reached me.
The years were merciful to my features, much like they had been to yours before you passed.
This morning, in that bathroom, I squinted my eyes in a vain attempt to clear my vision. My thick glasses long forgotten on my bedside table—the cold lifeless metal of its frame made me feel uneasy, so I opted to go on without them instead.
Once my vision finally adjusted half decently, I stared at the soft lines on the side of my eyes and remember how I had loved those lines on your face, yet I cannot help but find them hideous on mine.
My trembling hand, with those pianist fingers you adored, tentatively felt for the skin beside those lines. Pale, flaccid, thin, detached skin. It scares me more than it ever did you.
I tightly closed my eyes in hopes it might go away, but it served only to make me realize your fragrance still lingered, even after you had been gone for so long, the fancy pungent smell of Chanel nº 5 was impregnated on the walls of our walk-in closet that led to the bathroom.
I could almost taste the bitterness of the perfume from all those times you sprayed too much, and the drops accidently landed on my mouth.
For a split second I could hear your obnoxious laugh resonating through those mahogany walls, as you poorly apologized, seemingly out of breath, before resuming to your morning routine—that was most likely the last time I got to relieve those moments.
Deep inside, I know the whole reason to stare myself in that mirror every morning was so that I could, even if only for a fraction of a minute, be in the same room with you again.
I like to think I will miss these conversations of ours, but honestly, I will be lucky enough if I get to even remember them in the first place. I beg you, do not leave me again, do not let yourself be forgotten by this stupid brain of mine.
You left me once when you died, but at least then I was comforted by the idea no one could take my memories of you.
Now you are leaving again, leaving with the same memories that had once been my only solace and I cannot help but wonder if this illness is like dying, only the body stays alive as the consciousness fades away. And in that case, I also wonder if it means I will soon be with you. I hope so, I anticipate it almost.
See you on the other side, love.
To Cecilia