After she died, I realized how much she’d been shielding from my father’s mental state.
He doesn’t have alzheimers, but he has no short - term memory, and is often lost.
I took him to the funeral, but when we got home, he kept asking me every 15 minutes where my mother was. I had to explain over and over again, that she had died.
This was shocking news to him.
Why had no one told him?
Why hadn’t I taken him to the funeral?
Why hadn’t he visted her in the hospital?
He had no memory of these events.
After awhile, I realized I couldn’t keep telling him that his wife had died. He didn’t remember, and it was killing both of us, to constantly re-live her death.
I decided to tell him she’d gone to Paris, to take care of her brother, who was sick.
And that’s where she is now.
This is a journal.
An ongoing record of my father, and of our relationship.
For whatever days we have left together.