The things we cherish

The first line seems to be an attempt at a phone number. The second line is his name. Clearly. The third line? Lord only knows.

Martin would be the first person to tell you that his penmanship was always bad. The longer his dementia went on, the worse his handwriting got. Eventually, he could not hold a pen. Didn’t matter, I guess, because the time came when he didn’t know what a pen was.

As I watched him descend into death, I realized I had two choices: I could let Alzheimer's pull me out to sea or I could grab whatever joy I could. 

For me, there was joy on this particular day because Martin knew what a pen was and what a pen did.

Joy that he knew the relationship between pen and paper.

Joy that he remembered what numbers were.

Joy that he remembered his nickname and still could write it.

Joy that while the last line is indecipherable, he had enough awareness to make words with spaces between them.

After he wrote this, he showed it to me. Pleased as punch, he was.

I did not ask him what it said because long before I had learned my lesson about people with dementia and the danger of open-ended questions. I wanted to save him embarrassment in case he didn’t know what it said. 

So I asked if it was a love letter.

He smiled.

Me, too. Even after all these years, I smile.