It Hurts to Forget and It Hurts To Remember

“Her skin was so pale. Our Catherine. She used to frolic around our patio every morning. It would drive you so crazy. Wouldn’t it?”

“Pardon me?” I waited for a response.

Her skin creased oh so gently as her lips pursed, “Not you, honey. I’m talking to Jed.” She turned and faced a barren table in a café on Kennedy Street.

“Excuse me, but there’s…”

“I’m sorry. I’m having a conversation right now. Give me a moment, dear.” She turned away yet again. Her wrinkled eyes, which have witnessed more life than I could even imagine living, lit up as she continued to speak. “Jed, give me a moment, would you, sweetheart. Let me see what this sweet girl needs.”

With that, she turned to me. Her lips were as thin and as pink as two pieces of watermelon trident. Hmm. I loved it when my mother would give me a watermelon trident. “May I walk you home?” I asked her kindly, but I believe she understood that there was barely any room for negotiation. I believe the brief glimpse she took of my nurse's whites indicated something rather serious to her.

She paused, exhaled, smiled, and then, with a little turn of her head, said, “Of course, honey. I think I’m just… You know… the way I’m remembering things sometimes.”

Miss Kavenaugh. She liked me to refer to her as Mrs. Kavenaugh, though. Her husband had left her after she developed Early-onset Alzheimer’s. Leaving her with nothing but her pension from when she was a mathematics professor. They tell me he left her at the door of the Kennedy Memory Care Community.

He didn’t even bother checking her in.

“You were saying, Mrs. Kavenaugh? Her skin was so pale.” And just like that, the tiniest memory led to the greatest smile you’d ever see. Her tiny little teeth barely hanging in, her pronounced dimples, and each and every wrinkle on her face, all bestowing themselves upon us.

“Yes. Yes dear. You see her skin, our Catherine. Her skin was so pale that when she drank milk, it would be hard to tell if she had one of those adorable little mustaches.” Sometimes it was as if Miss Kavenaugh had lost all memories except those of her early marriage. Other times, she barely remembered her own name. I’m sure if I called her by it, she wouldn’t respond.

“That’s adorable, Mrs. Kavenaugh. Why don’t you tell me more?” As her lips pursed together again, her tongue barely protruding, licking her lips and preparing them for what would be the story of a lifetime…

…

“Mrs. Kavenaugh?”

“Mrs. Kavenaugh?” I yelled.

“Mrs. Kavenaugh!”

“Yes, dear, I’m alright.” She uttered, sprawled on the hard cement sidewalk. “What happened?” she asked.

“A little boy came racing through. It all happened so quickly.” I explained, though it’s kids like these who have no remorse for the elderly. It’s kids like these who don’t even stop to check on an old woman they’ve hit and run. “Are you sure you’re okay?” My hands placed on hers, helping her sit up ever so gently.

“Oh dear. I’m alright. Kids will be kids. I hope he’s alright.” How can she be concerned about another? “You know, dear, your hands are an awful lot like Catherine’s.”

As I helped her stand, my eyes still perusing, hoping for that little one to show himself, and oh, would you he receive a proper scolding. I felt Miss Kavenaugh read my mind. She pulled my face close to hers and with her soft cheek nestled on mine, she whispered to me, “Sweetheart. They are just kids, best not to get angry.”

I suppose there was a lot I learnt from Miss Kavenaugh. She was admitted at a relatively young age. She had been here for over 25 years, 3 of which were under my care.

We walked into the institute, where she would always greet everyone with the biggest smile. Though she’d have trouble remembering everyone’s names, you could be sure she’d at least try. Every day, she would call me by a new name. At times she would call me Kamila, sometimes she would call me Rebecca, and most recently she’s been calling me Abby. Of course, I understand that she can’t remember my name, but it does leave me feeling a bit iffy at times. I suppose that’s not fair, though, not to her, not in the slightest.

“Shall we continue with the story, Mrs. Kavenaugh?” Sometimes she’d realize that I asked often so that her mind would remain active and she wouldn’t lose her memories as fast, but most of the time she was excited to share them, and I was very excited to hear them.

“Before I go on, sweetie, why don’t you tell me about yourself?” She asked with such earnestness, such kindness.

For the 4th time today.

“Well, Mrs. Kavenaugh. Today’s my 32nd birthday.” Her hands found their way to the small of my back, though her arms were short and there wasn’t much meat left on her bones, I knew that there was no escape from her embrace. She held me with warmth I hadn’t felt since I was in kindergarten.

For the 4th time today.

Honestly, it was lovely.

By the time she had let go, I could tell that her grip loosened only from a bout of confusion. As to why her arms are wrapped around another. I peered down at her, holding her hand and guiding her to her favorite chair. It was by the window overlooking the back garden. Well, on Mr. Renferd's birthday, she said she liked it because it was soft and comfortable, and on Peter’s, she said she liked how the wood was stern and gave her support. I think the reason she loved to sit here, though, was that from her chair she could see a playground in the distance. She could see kids tussling around in the sand, swinging sky high and tumbling around and around and around. We’d all catch her here, sitting for hours and just smiling.

Weeks would pass by here.

Usually, around the end of the year, Miss Kavenaugh would have bouts of depression. This Christmas, however, was different. This Christmas, Miss Kavenaugh told me a story, one that I hadn’t heard before. It was the story of her daughter, Catherine.

It was while we were placing ornaments on the tree in the garden. I had planted a tree a couple of years ago on request of some of our residents. She was wearing such an elegant red sundress. She looked so happy. It was when she was placing the tiny little candy canes around the edges of the tree that she asked me, “Honey, would it be alright if I told you about the time I went sweater shopping with Catherine?”

To be very honest, I jumped at the idea.

“Yes, Mrs. Kavenaugh, I’d love nothing more,” I responded with a smile that dittoed hers.

She spoke, “Catherine loved ugly sweaters. I remember that we went to a small boutique store in a mall. She saw this orange and green striped sweater that made absolutely no sense, and she would simply not listen to any reason. She ran around screaming mama, mama, can I…” The tears trickling down Miss Kavenaugh’s cheeks right into the edges of her huge smile looked so melancholically beautiful.

“Can I… PLEASSEEEE” She even screamed it out. “All I could say to that was, of course, sweetheart.” She continued, “So we bought the sweaters and went home. When we got back, my husband had already been drinking. It was customary for us to spike our eggnog, but this time it was a bit out of hand. When I asked him what was wrong? He told me that he had seen my medical results, and my illness frustrated him.”

“He said it frustrated him, M…?”

“Yup.” She interrupted me, but with a smile that reeked of sorrow. “He told me that if he had known about it, he would have figured something out. But, because it came out of nowhere, he just didn’t know what to do. Unfortunately, he kept to the bottle for the few weeks before he left. I just wish I had made things better so that he’d have stayed until Catherine’s 7th birthday.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that.” My arms instinctively wrapped around her. Trying to console her the best I could in such a miserable moment. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did he react this way?”

Her body began to shrink; she looked as if she were a shell of the self she was just moments ago. It’s terrifying what remembering can do when you aren’t used to it.

“I think, dear, it’s because when we married each other, I promised him something I could no longer be for him.”

Before I could bring myself to utter the next question, she just…

“I promised him a good wife, one that would care, love, cherish, and provide him with a family. I guess developing Alzheimer’s wasn’t a part of our deal.” She smiled, but we both knew that it wasn’t funny. Unfortunately, we found it sad for different reasons.

A quiet pause followed. Mr. Renfard was quick to save the day, though he fell off his chair into the pudding at the perfect time.

“So, honey, why don’t you tell me about your mother?” She asked, I suppose to change the topic. However, it wasn’t the first time, so I thought I might as well answer her, given all that we just spoke about.

“Well, Mrs. Kavenaugh, I called her Jo. It was either Jo or Mama. I preferred Jo, though.” A slight chuckle escaped.

Miss Kavenaugh met it with one too, “Jo, that’s such a beautiful name. Is it short for something? Jordana or Joreni, maybe? I used to have a friend named Joreni.”

“Yeah, it was my nickname for her. We both had the cutest nicknames for each other. Well, if I’m honest. Hers for me was pretty basic.” I kept rambling, and she kept listening. “I only knew my mother for a short period of time. I guess you could say life took her from me. My aunt raised me. My mother, though, Mrs. Kavenaugh was a complete and utter powerhouse. She once made supper for 11 people, but I can barely feed my husband and son.”

Miss Kavenaugh reached her slender hand over, and it gave me such warmth. “It sounds like you had a beautiful mother.”

I nodded, “I do.”

“Honey, one thing I’m quite curious about after listening to your story…”

“Where was my father?” I interrupted her.

“No, actually, what was her nickname for you? I think I’d like to call you by that if that’s alright. You, in that god-awful sweater, remind me so much of my own daughter.”

“I’d love it if you called me Cathy again.”