Chapter 1
I rarely reminisce about time spent without you, my love. It can be fun recounting stories from my mischievous youth, but to me, they are stories, nothing more. I observe no connection to the child I was; I only recognize the person I am when I'm with you. Without you, I am incomplete, bearing a chilling emptiness that remained undetected until we became one.
Do you remember my excitement when we started dating? We were just two immigrants in this strange country trying to get by.
You adapted quicker than I ever could. I'm still impressed by how diligently you studied the language, and I loved watching you chitchat with the natives of our new country. In contrast, I found work at an early age with people from our home country who were trying to build a life but were not interested in learning the native language or understanding the culture.
While my language skills improved at a turtle's pace, our love progressed in leaps and bounds. My immense joy when we tied the knot and, without hesitation, started a family is still unmatched. After that, life became a lovely chaotic dream, packed with all the ups and downs a family-centred life could offer.
It wasn't all sunshine and rainbows, but I could soldier through the tough days knowing you had my back. When I worked two jobs, toiling at the factory during the day and entertaining alongside the band at night, you were waiting when I dragged my weary body back home. As the kids got older, and I drove them to countless hockey and soccer games, we still found time to connect, my love. A team is only as strong as the chemistry between its leading players; likewise, our family remained close-knit because we spent what time we could together to ensure our love endured.
Sure, we squabbled, but is bickering really a sign of a love destined to fail? On the contrary, I see it as a positive. Not only do I believe it to be a sign of two people who are not afraid to be completely open and honest with one another, but it also reveals that they haven't given up on improving their relationship. Show me a couple who smile and nod when there's an issue, and I'll show you two people who likely won't be together much longer. Of course, no relationship will ever be perfect, no two people are entirely compatible, and life's countless trials and tribulations occasionally cause even the most steadfast of us to act irrationally, which usually spills over onto the rest of the family.
Nevertheless, your family braces through the storm and then rush to support you. Is there any greater asset? They acknowledge you are struggling, yet love you all the same.
So we clashed, and ya, usually I was the root cause. I can be hard to live with sometimes; if stubbornness was an Olympic sport, our house would be filled with gold medals. So, of course, we quarrelled. You were never one to bite your tongue when I was out of line, and when you combined that with my unwillingness to back down, it made for some intense battles, but eventually, there was peace. Love always prevailed.
When I consider who I am, I only ever see myself with you by my side. Not the child running around those tiny streets in the village I grew up in, and not the man I am now.
As I sit on this frigid bench, the cold winter wind biting at the exposed skin on my face, my heavy eyelids close and your warm smile stares back at me.
My other half.
That is what you are to me, and it is agonizing to accept any reality that doesn't contain you.
Chapter 2
Where are you, my love?
I'm surrounded by strangers, their smiling faces perpetually taunting me.
Are they keeping you from me?
They must be.
Why have they taken you? You, the person I need more than air, the person I turn to when the world wounds more than this battered heart can bear on its own.
In my despair, I sometimes escape, fleeing from the place that resembles our home.
Despite the house being filled with all the lifeless objects that match the ones that serve as the background of my fondest memories, it instead houses cold strangers who treat me like a child and monitor me like spies.
Is this some distorted nightmare? Some treacherous vision which is, in fact, nothing but the creation of my traitorous mind. The building resembles our home but lacks everyone who made it one. If it is indeed the same structure, it is evident that only sticks and stones remain. There is no home here, merely a prison which torments me by resembling the place I once cherished.
Staying here a moment longer is unbearable, so I throw on my shoes and start walking in a desperate attempt at freedom.
I make it reasonably far, walking in a single direction with no intended destination, knowing anywhere is better than that funhouse of horrors, that damn cage, which haunts me with memories of times never to return.
Times never to return... Can that be right? Surely, my mind is playing tricks on me, or perhaps someone has deceived me. My gut tells me something suspicious is afoot, and I refuse to be had by some half-baked scheme.
You are somewhere out there, my love, waiting for me, and I am willing to endlessly wander until you are in my arms once more.
Despite my best effort, moving at the quickest speed this old body can muster, those wretched unfamiliar faces capture me and return me to the distorted version of our home.
They even scold me, the scoundrels. They demand I never leave this building alone. I worked my whole life to have a home where we could share our lives and live comfortably surrounded by family; yet now, I am a pet monkey who cannot leave his cage without a handler.
What a sick joke. I am a good man who always puts others before myself. What crime did I commit to be locked away, purposeless and alone, waiting for a phone call from you like the darling of a soldier waiting by the mailbox for good news?
The phone rings, and a surge of hope and excitement floods my system as I'm sure this is the moment my wait is finally over. You will be on the other line, and the curtains around me will tumble to the ground, revealing the stage you and I starred on for as long as I can remember.
Time stands still without you, but finally, the second hand on my life's motionless clock is about to take its long-awaited leap forward.
Oh, glorious day.
Oh, praise the most high.
My lonesome search for you is through.
Alas, that ringing piece of white plastic on the kitchen counter teased me. Again it beckoned me. Again it let me down.
The caller sounds familiar, but I'm heartbroken. The voice doesn't belong to you. Disappointment pours over me, washing away any hope that remains, so I slam the phone against the counter.
Where are you?
What have they done with you?
Somewhere in the mountains, perhaps? Where you rest and roam, wearing your radiant smile, which matches the sun's brilliance, as the songs you sing warm the surrounding hearts more than that glowing ball of fire in the sky ever could.
Where are you?
My dreams hold me back from plunging into an unescapable pool of madness.
I am at peace once my eyes close and you return. Any anguish is instantly smothered under the lava from my volcanic joy, which is impossible to keep inside for even a second, and my loneliness is exchanged for the completeness I enjoy every moment spent in your presence. Peace is my world, and love is the air. My fantastic subconscious even does me the courtesy of playing the music we listened to in the early days of our blossoming love. As the two of us spin around and around, the world revolves around us. The sun, moon and stars now orbit our location, as not even a black hole's mass comes close to that of our shared love.
The bliss I experience with you keeps me going, but despite our nightly reunion, I wake up in the morning, and you're gone.
I sit on the porch strumming my guitar, hoping my melodies will reach your ears and help you find your way to me, but still, you have yet to return. So this beaten guitar sings its sweet songs until my fingers are sore, then I return to my cage alone.
Inside I meander from room to room. Eventually, I turn on the TV, but it only momentarily holds my attention. The faces are foreign, the stories on the news so strange, the athletes on the fields so young, and there is no one to watch with. I quickly turn the screen black, then continue my pacing.
When I am peckish, I browse the fridge, yet despite eating well and drinking espresso, it still feels as if the gravity in this cage is tripled. Those unfamiliar faces force me to take pills every morning, and I suspect they are meant to weaken me. I sometimes pretend to swallow them and spit them into the toilet, but no life returns to my struggling muscles.
It is not just the pictures on the walls that remind me of the alternate universe I once resided in, where I was happy and surrounded by the people I love, and it's not just the unfamiliar faces who keep me confined in this prison. What tears apart my sanity most, like cheese on a grater, is the constant boredom. The younger me was always on the move. There was no stopping me. I had responsibilities, and I used every drop of energy to be there for the ones who relied on me.
Even though it always felt as if there was never enough time and always more to do, even though there was no shortage of fires that needed putting out, even though my feet were always sore and some days I had to fight to keep my eyes open, compared to this empty existence, that was nirvana. Give me a to-do list longer than Santa's, and I'll give you a nod of approval before getting to work. Then, at least, there was something. There was a purpose, there was necessity, there was a reason to keep climbing, and there was you to help me up if I fell.
Now I'm falling, but I can't find the ground. Won't you catch me like you've done countless times before? Won't you spread your golden wings, glide down and whisk me away to the world where we never must part.
The vision of you holding me in your arms as we soar toward the heavens intoxicates me, and I'm weightless as I rest my eyes.
I black out and awake, cornered by two men. I'm shouting at them, but they don't back down. Others are watching, but no one does anything to stop the advancing strangers. I look the men dead in the eyes. They seem familiar, but there's no time to try and recall where I know them from.
A thought occurs to me—these men kidnapped you—so I act without hesitation, confronting them for playing a part in your abduction.
"Where is my wife?"
My words hit one of the men like a knife to the gut. He winces and bends at the hips, resting his hands on his thighs. The other man's expression switches from determination to grief, and he backs away.
Realizing the power in my words and deducing that this must be proof that they are, in fact, the men who took you from me, I repeat myself.
"Where is my wife?"
I'm approaching the bent-over man now with violence in my mind. If they will not return you to me, they will suffer. The second man retreats further as my fists slam against the head and chest of the first. Surprisingly, he does nothing to defend himself as he stands upright; instead, he simply absorbs my blows. His eyes are filled with tears, but my intuition tells me the large man's pain is the result of something other than my continued assault.
He stares at me as a man stares at the ashes of what was once his home, wondering if there is anything of value left to salvage or if the heartless flames devoured everything he loved.
The others in the room grab me and hold me against the wall as blind rage makes me writhe and scream. Then the world goes dark.
There is a memory that continues to puzzle me.
You and I sat in an office together, and I vividly remember such pain in your eyes as you shouted, "How can you not remember? We did that yesterday!"
I was unable to respond because a man in a white coat entered the office. He greeted us politely and proceeded to retrieve a file from the cabinet behind his desk before sitting down. Unfortunately, his English was difficult for me to understand as he used a lot of medical vocabulary that was above my level of comprehension.
Instead, I found myself observing him more than listening. The dark bags under his eyes suggested exhaustion, and how his eyes darted away from us as he offered a weak smile gave me the impression that the news he shared was unpleasant. Finally, he said something in a gentle tone, and you cried.
I instinctively grabbed your hand and held it tight, slowly rubbing my other hand on your back in an effort to soothe you, even ever so slightly.
Your stare didn't stray from the doctor as you asked several questions I could only slightly make out. Bits and pieces were understandable—how long, is it reversible—but I lost the rest as you frantically whispered.
The secrets you and the doctor shared caused you tremendous pain, so I longed to decode your messages and uncover a way to ease your heartache.
My confusion led to anger, and I demanded to know what was going on.
After getting into it with you, you said you weren't feeling well and asked me to bring you a glass of water. Seething, I stormed out of the office and stepped outside for some fresh air.
I never did find out what that meeting was concerning. Would I know why you were taken from me if my English had been better?
Was it something I did? When thoughts like this occupy my mind, I clean the house, do my dishes, shower, shave, take out the trash, and complete every other chore I can think of to show you how sorry I am for whatever I did.
Despite my best efforts, you are nowhere to be found.
What mountain must I scale, what ocean must I cross, what galaxy must I explore, so I can be by your side once more?
Where are you?
Chapter 3
At least I have our garden. There's a feeling of necessity among the plants, and as autumn approaches, I enjoy the fruits of my labour. The three long rectangular gardens that span the perimeter of the backyard are full of plants that need my care. I tirelessly pluck weeds, nurture struggling plants, fertilize when necessary, and prune any dead or dying areas.
Though the work leaves my back stiff and sore, there is something incredibly delicious about biting into something you grew yourself. Compared to the products in the grocery store labelled fresh, which likely were only fresh before being packed onto a boat and shipped across the ocean, the quality of our veggies makes them taste like a different species.
I wake up and head downstairs for breakfast, where our daughter sits by the kitchen table reading a newspaper. I cheerfully greet her, and she does the same. She tells me she bought me some groceries. I thank her but assure her you have bought groceries already. She responds with a weak smile before turning her attention back to the newspaper.
I decide to try and fit the two large bags of groceries, which she left on the counter, into our modestly sized refrigerator. I swing open the door to find a nearly empty fridge, the glass shelves holding only a container of cake and the door's shelves some sauces. I turn to our daughter. "Why hasn't your mother done the shopping? There's nothing in here."
Her eyes tighten, and an angry expression momentarily creases her brow, but it is replaced by a softer gaze and a compassionate smile. "She's just been busy, Dad."
Something is troubling her, but before I can question her further, she abruptly excuses herself, hugs me, and walks to the front door.
As she begins the arduous process of putting on her expensive-looking heels, I ask, "What's wrong?"
She brushes my questions off as if she doesn't hear me.
Annoyed, I repeat louder, "What's wrong?"
As she wiggles into her first shoe and begins battling with the second, it dawns on me that I haven't seen you today, and a wave of anxiety hits me. What if her sudden evacuation has something to do with your absence?
"What's your mother busy with?"
No answer.
"Where is she?"
Our daughter struggles to keep her balance as she works a shoe horn against the back of her heel in an attempt to set her slender foot into the tight shoe.
She is ignoring me, so my irritation turns to outrage.
"Where is she!"
My outburst startles her, and she falls to the ground, dropping her shoe and the shoehorn.
My compassion subdues my fury as I watch tears run down her cheeks. Finally, I whisper, "Where is she?"
We stare at one another, tears dripping from her chin, until she grabs her shoe and purse and gets to her feet. She turns to leave but glances back and whispers, "She's just busy, Dad."
With that, she's out the door, hobbling like a peg-legged pirate, her shoe and purse swinging by her side as she hurries away.
As she drives off, I mumble, "I'm sorry."
After the rear of her car is lost behind the neighbour's enormous, unmaintained shrubs, my fury, smouldering in my gut, returns to full force.
With no one around to lash out at, it turns its wrath on me. I berate myself, "You foolish old man, she did you a favour, and you scared her away. Are you happy now? You lost your cool, and like always, nothing good came of it!"
I try to find anything that will bring me peace, but nothing is capable of such a feat. I flip through channels for a total of two minutes before turning off the TV. I walk to the fridge and put the groceries away. Even once the task is complete, my self-destructive dialogue has not ceased.
As the sun creeps past the shades covering our kitchen doors, I remember tending to my garden always does the trick when I'm in a bad mood.
It has been a while since I've harvested, so I grab a large bowl from under the counter, slip on my sandals, and head out into the sunny backyard.
The fresh air, cool breeze and unobstructed sunlight hit me like the morphine administered before my last surgery. The tranquillizing effect when stepping outside eliminates all negative emotions. The relief is well-needed.
I take a deep breath and proceed toward the garden.
My inner peace turns to displeasure, then to rage as I find more and more of my vegetables were plucked from the plants, ripped apart and discarded in the dirt.
I walk along the garden's edge and find more and more destruction. Whatever vermin chose to dine in our garden treated it like a buffet, nibbling on this and that but discarding most of the meal.
With nothing on my mind but revenge, I return inside and walk downstairs to my workshop.
Concealed under my workbench's tabletop, a wooden box covered in a thick layer of dust is fastened. With some effort, I loosen the latches that hold it snugly in place, and it tumbles to the ground. Lifting the box, years of dust coating my hands, I place it on my workbench. The contents haven't been touched since I built the box many years ago. In it, a silver BB gun rests next to a plastic bottle filled with metal pellets. The weapon is pristine, as I locked it away shortly after purchasing it.
I bought it to deal with animals in the garden, but an inaccurate shot caused our neighbour to call the police after I struck his house, so I packed it away for a rainy day.
I won't miss again.
I return to the backyard, grab a plastic chair from around our glass table, and place it at the edge of the grass. I wear my leather coat and rest the gun in my lap, on top of which I drape a blanket.
Sometimes trembling with anticipation, watching squirrels and cats running along the top of the fence, I make no advance. They aren't the ones I'm waiting for.
I let out a long yawn and study the sky. Many hours of daylight are left, but I haven't eaten anything today. My stomach lets out a loud growl, demanding a snack.
I'm considering leaving my post for a quick bite to eat when I notice two squirrels paused on our fence. They both stare, their tiny eyes locked on me.
One senses danger and retreats the way it came, but the other is either brave or stupid as it crawls down the fence instead.
I know who you are. You're the god damned thief I've been waiting for.
My hand slowly slides under the blanket, my palm finding the gun's rubber grip as my index finger rests on the trigger.
For a second, my thundering heart, sounding like the beat of a bass drum, seems loud enough to scare the intruder away, but I am relieved to see the squirrel doesn't notice, instead occupied with a ripe tomato.
It pulls the tomato from the vine, nibbles, and discards it after noticing something new. Its new fancy is closer to me, so it brazenly approaches, seeming to forget my presence entirely.
I'm slipping the pistol from its hiding spot but stop as it reaches the edge of the blanket.
Focus.
I inhale one long breath.
Get the bastard!
The next seconds are a blur. I fly from my chair, swinging my gun towards my enemy, firing again and again. My first shot hits the distracted animal in the side above its back leg. Evidently, one shot isn't enough as it absorbs the impact and begins to retreat.
That damn root in the center of the backyard, which I've tripped over countless times but haven't gotten around to removing, catches my foot. Stumbling over it as I rush forward causes me to only slightly lose my balance as I fire my weapon, but enough for the shot to go above the target and ring off the glass of the neighbour's window. Regardless, I'm not deterred, regaining my balance and continuing my pursuit.
I'm on its tail as it climbs the fence, and I hit it a second time, causing it to fall.
I fire two more shots to be safe, but my foe is no more.
For a long moment, I stare at the body of my vanquished adversary but recall my shot that went wide and hit our neighbour's home. I race inside, go straight to the basement, and return the gun to its hiding spot. Then, I head back to the battleground.
I survey the scene of my victory, and my gaze falls on that bothersome root, so I gather the tools necessary to remove it once and for all. I'm rejuvenated, my blood pumping rapidly and sweat pouring from my forehead as I dig around and chop at the large section of root.
When all is said and done, the pesky root is in my hand, and a sizable hole is in the center of the backyard. Despite wearing gloves, large blisters formed on my hands. The sting they deliver reminds me of my hard work, representing a job well done.
I throw the root into the compost and return to my work site to clean my mess. Then, reaching down to grab my shovel, I eye the lifeless body of the tiny invader.
You deserve a burial.
I grab a torn, oil-stained rag from the shed, wrap the now cool squirrel in it, then place the small package in the hole and slowly cover it with dirt.
Chapter 4
As I watch the news, the lead anchor introducing today's headlines, I notice the date in the corner of the screen. Tomorrow is your birthday.
Combing the house from the basement up, I encounter an unfamiliar face in one of the bedrooms, who politely say hello before turning back to the TV. Next, just to be safe, I check the garage, where our car is parked, and the backyard, which is just as quiet. Finally, I check the kitchen counter for a note from you, but there is nothing but a blank pad of paper, a pen, and my dirty dishes from earlier.
I have yet to buy you a gift, so a fever of excitement comes over me. I make myself an espresso, then sit and sip the calming drink, considering what to get you. Savouring the last few drops, I am still without any ideas.
As my mind struggles to solve my dilemma, it wanders to the diary you frequently write in. If there is something you want, you would have written it in there.
I climb the winding staircase, enter through the double doors of our bedroom, then open your bedside table's top drawer, and remove the little blue book. I skim through the hundreds of entries, relieved you recorded them in our native tongue.
At random, I stop at an entry towards the end and begin to read.
July 17, 2000
I'm terrified that my condition is rapidly progressing every day. This insidious disease saps every ounce of my energy, making simple tasks almost impossible. My pain is tremendous. Even when I lie on my back, focusing on my breathing, I cannot escape the discomfort below my stomach.
Despite my hope that I would get used to the treatments, the poison is as potent as ever, the nausea is relentless, and the process as it 'kills' the disease feels like battery acid eating away at my innards.
But, the constant suffering I am subject to is not the cause of my fear. No, not at all. If anyone knows of my acceptance of my predicament, it is you, my little friend, your thin pages holding the secrets my mouth cannot mutter.
When surrounded by family and friends, I force a smile and act as if I have a slight case of the flu, joking about how some water and rest are all I need. Why can't I reveal my agony and allow those who love me to offer all the assistance I know they wish to provide.
No, not me. I'm the small soldier, and I'll maintain a strong front and keep fighting until the last ounce of strength is squeezed from this dying body.
Yet, again, I must return to my growing fear. As my love's condition worsens, I worry about who will be there for him once I'm gone. My time is limited, and I fear for the fate of my love when I must make my final exit. Even though we have family members and friends who will do their best to look after him, he can be a handful, and as his mind wanes, he becomes more and more challenging to manage.
Despite my growing weakness, my love for him remains as fierce as ever, but how much longer can I hold on?
I'm bewildered by the eerie words you carefully penned but must just need more context to make sense of what you've written, so I flip to an earlier entry.
June 11, 2000
I'm furious with that sick man. I know it's not his fault, but how it aggravates me when he forgets such simple details. How long have I watched the man I love wilt before my eyes? The man who sometimes makes me cry with laughter, who sometimes causes my blood to boil, who sometimes plays beautiful music, who sometimes wants to chat with anyone around. There is less and less of that man inside my husband's body. He is fading. I try everything I can think of, showing him pictures and videos from better days and telling him stories we once both cherished, but it seems he hears only half of what I say, as if I am a TV show that barely holds his attention. I'm losing him, but physically he is as right as rain. When he is at his worst, like today, his clueless grin and innocent questions are enough to drive me mad. I wanted to revile him. Who's that? Who's that? That's your grandson, you imbecile! But instead, I found the strength to hold my tongue, unlike the many previous occasions when I could not. Can those who have not experienced something similar to this hardship imagine the feeling of having your love in your arms but realizing you hold only the tattered pieces of what you treasure most?
What does any of this mean? Lightheaded, I collapse into the rocking chair across from our bed. I flip to the earliest entry.
December 25, 1993
Today is Christmas, and my daughter bought me a diary. I wish I could start this book on a positive note, but I'm genuinely worried about my love. He drifts off during conversations and sometimes cannot recall prominent events from our past. On top of that, he wandered outside without his coat today, and my son found him standing on the sidewalk, shivering a block away. We will visit a doctor and have him checked out after the holidays.
January 7, 1994
A new year has arrived, but I'm far from optimistic after visiting our family doctor. He told us my husband's symptoms point to Alzheimer's, for which no known cure exists. He didn't understand what the doctor told us; instead, he got angry and stormed out halfway through the consultation. Diary, I pulled myself together when we left the office and drove home, but my tears were unstoppable as soon as I was alone in the bathroom. Even now, my tears soak into your delicate pages, distorting the devastating truth, blurring the words describing my husband's foggy mind. I keep imagining a recently turned-over hourglass, seeing all that makes my love who he is as the sand. As days are lost to night, so are pieces of my love, never to return. How long will it be before he doesn't remember our children's names, or how to play the guitar, or, worst of all, wakes up one morning and doesn't recognize me?
January 31, 1994
All I want is the cure to what ails my love, but nothing can defend against what has invaded him and wishes to devour his soul. His body is no worse for wear, but his essence becomes less defined, a castle in the sand fighting a losing battle against the unstoppable tide.
My desire for his return and my understanding that he never will battle in my heart. The sickness growing in my soul since I first recognized something was not quite right with him has become another nightmare, polluting every part of me. I have been feeling unwell, which at first I chalked up to my devastated spirit. I should probably visit my physician, but I can't bring myself to go. Any more bad news could destroy me.
What does any of this mean? I'm trying to understand, but I'm grasping at smoke. I yearn to know where you are and what gift will bring you joy as you celebrate another trip around the sun. So I skip forward until I find a page with smudged ink. Your writing is shaky, while drops of liquid have mixed with the ink and caused it to pool.
November 29, 1994
The life I've built around me is collapsing, and no matter what I do, my best efforts cannot hold up the walls as they crash down around me.
I've spent so much time caring for others that when the doctor called me to his office, I wasn't sure what to make of it. I entered, and he somberly greeted me. The news he gave me was exponentially more painful than the biopsy performed earlier this month, which he told me was precautionary and would likely deliver a negative result.
A half-hour later, I was shaking in the car. Cancer! Dear God. I have cancer. Everyone has cancer nowadays, but I never imagined I would. I've always taken good care of myself. I never smoked, only occasionally drank, and constantly stayed active.
The doctor's news was as unbelievable as if he had told me my legs were snakes and my hair spaghetti. I laughed at first, but when he didn't return a smile, I understood no joke was being played. Instead, he told me they caught my cancer early and would do everything in their power to slow its spread. He repeatedly mentioned how far cancer treatment has come, but the long list of people I know who died from cancer in the last five years screamed liar at the calm man across from me.
I remember now, my love; you have been sick for a while. Always laying on the couch, but I thought you had gotten better. Perhaps that's where you are, at the hospital. My concern for you is overwhelming, but my aspiration to give you a rejuvenating gift is only reinforced. Even if you are still sick, I'll provide you with something unimaginable to lift your spirits and bring your beautiful smile to life.
Of course, the answer I seek must be closer to the current date. So I skip forward, then continue studying.
October 12, 1999
I have never believed with such certainty in the powerful connection of love as I do now. As my husband's condition worsens, forgetting the names and faces of those closest to us, the disease spreads faster within me. Every ounce of my husband that is lost adds an ounce of sickness to my system. It seems that our love connects our decline.
My want for a cure for him is as strong as ever. I sat in the living room today and had an interesting train of thought. If an angel came to me and offered to cure one of us, whom would I choose? After some reflection, it became clear that it would certainly be him. My reason, dear diary, is not one of a selfless wife, always looking out for her husband; actually, it's quite the opposite. No, my choice is entirely selfish, for to be cured and watch as my love fades to black before my eyes until there is nothing but skin, bones, and a pale imitation of the man I love would be the most excruciating torture, but to spend my remaining time with the wonderful, funny, hard-working, boisterous, devoted man whom I spent my whole adult life, would be the greatest gift. What I wouldn't give to chat with the complete man I love, no memory fog, no loss of focus, just me and him staring into each other's eyes, the powerful bond of our love turning two into one once more. If only for a moment, what a miracle that would be.
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125,029 Literary Works • 672,786 Reviews
Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),
Hi! I'm here to leave a quick review!!
First Impression: OKayy a powerful, powerful read this one. I think you've gone and really tapped into some incredible emotions in this piece and honestly all I can say is this was powerful and I genuinely had tears in my eyes.
Anyway let's get right to it,
Well this is an intriguing point to start off with. We've got quite a bit of reflection happening. Its a very interesting point to start a story off with, especially given it seems this one is a bit of a longer one part of several chapters. I'm excited to see where this is going here.
Well this is coming along with some very powerful little memories here. Such wholesomeness slowly being built up with all of these beautiful memories of a family slowly growing up and a long standing love. It is making me very paranoid for what could possibly be waiting for us in the parts to come here because things don't normally start this wholesome and remain that way.
Oh this is an interesting direction to take there. We're diving away from what is more purely a reflection of a life lived into slightly something more philosophical too and covering the idea of a well functioning family as well. Especially how you refer to things not always being perfect but things making it through despite all of that.
Well that's quite the picture there. I think you tap into the more philosophical aspect while swimming in and out of the real recollections really nicely and ultimately produce a lovely wholesome image of a long loving life here, and given that we're coming to and end with this chapter it seems like we've just established all the beauty so that we can hit some really low points soon. You've done a great enough job there that I am paranoid for what is to come now.
Ooohh this is quite something here. It looks like we're dealing with someone suffering from some sort of condition that comes with old age. The way this person speaks of being in a strange place filled with strangers really seems to convey that when its following the kind of first paragraph that we had there. I could be reading way too much into this, but somehow it feels like that.
Oh this is really powerful. Mental condition, or actual some sort of magic aside, the feeling of just missing this person and being surrounded by and unfamiliar confusing world that's unbearable to stay in conveyed incredibly powerfully there. Immediately all of those wholesome notes are replaced and we're left with just plenty of sadness to mull over here.
Ooooh well this one really does seem to absolutely support the idea of this being a more mental condition than anything else. Unfamiliar version of home filled with strangers couldn't possible mean anything else and just the sheer power you showcase through this is immense.
Oh the hope this person has to escape this hell they don't recognize. Ahh. I don't if I've ever seen a point of view quite like this but this is hitting in some really powerful spots really quickly here. I just have to applaud and then run for them tissue because I am going to need some very soon here.
Oh the pain in this piece is just hitting some ridiculous notes here. Goodness you've managed to capture this situation from such a unique and powerful perspective here and it absolutely hits you so very hard as a reader.
The first chapter really goes hand in hand with this so very powerfully and honestly I feel like i'm going to be repeating this a lot in this review but this viewpoint is just incredibly powerful and you're capturing these aspects of the person's life and hope just one by one, each one more painful to see than the last.
Oh this dream of them existing together is dipping back into the philosophical notes once again and ahhh this time its hit much harder to see this person reflecting on a lost love that in all likelyhood isn't really lost but is simply lost due to the mind.
Well this is just continuing along that vein once again. I like that you've got now a second day for this and you show some actually passing of time. It ends up making this feel just that tiny bit more powerful as a result because you see more than just the reaction in a single moment. I think that's a lovely choice you made there.
Oh wow this is diving into areas I didn't even expect it to touch. Talking about how this person has grown old to a point where they can't perform responsibilities there really hits home. As a person who has grandparents suffering like this, this one hits so close to home and seeing it from that point of view is especially powerful.
And we're back to tapping into this family and this love again. Oh this one is definitely revolving through some powerful points with this one, circling through it all. I love the way you linked that all up there, it creates a powerful little continuation of this nightmare that this person lives through.
Ooooh well we can see clearly this must be probably the sons of this person and to see not just how unfortunately this person sees all of this as evil and people who have taken away the person he loved but also you can also notice that these people are in fact caring for this person and are just as affected as we readers are by the events that are taking place here.
OH this is even more powerful than I thought, this person actually physically going over to the suffering person and not really able to decipher true feelings but rather only really being able to put it into this narrative that has become this person's life.
Ooooh well we're getting to the doctor as well there. This is really hitting quite some powerful notes here once again. To see how the outside world appears so hostile while you can also clearly infer the help that is being provided to this man to try and overcome all of this.
Oh this is interesting, it seems somehow the person feels connected to the wife again through something although it doesn't feel like this person is actually there or being recognized. A tiny bit of happiness plus a bit of confusion there. That has been quite exciting.
Ahhh well that ends powerful once again. Chapter two hits incredibly hard there introducing to us the "nightmare" our protagonist is trapped in and showcasing how strange and painful he inhabits. I think the references to the others in the family and how we can see enough to connect the dots really helps out in making this so much more powerful here.
Ohh okay, this is different. Given it all just the same "I", I have to wonder if this actually something this person can in fact properly experience or if we've been transported a little further back in time to showcase us more of the family that this person once had.
Oh this is something. It seems to be linking to the earlier problem while at the same time we also see this person able to somewhat recognize the daughter. I love that detail I think. I'm not knowledgeable enough in these diseases to know how they work but seeing that brief moments of recognition can occur absolutely heightens the powerfulness of this effect.
Oh I have a feeling this answer has something to do with perhaps this person actually being dead after all so this person is in fact lost, but our protagonist here is having trouble actually remembering that.
Oh this is really hitting powerfully especially if the wife is actually did. This insistence there and the clear outburst to follow really is so powerful with everything else that we as the reader can spot. Once again I'm just left to run for them tissues.
Well that seems unfortunately all that the daughter can really do faced with what is undoubtedly an incredible painful situation to have to witness. The I'm sorry that you include at the end thought is just incredible in nailing the final nail in that coffin to just make that whole scene wrap up with just that extra touch of sadness.
Oh my, this is really kicking things off here. Wow...transitioning from that to our character then actually ending blaming themself. That is incredibly painfully realistic and I just adore the way you manage to build on this so well but at the same time this is just incredibly sad to read here.
Well it seems like unfortunately even the little grounding point that we did find there at the start to help this person along to find some sort of inner piece is now only going to serve to cause further disruption somehow and once again all I can say this is incredibly powerfully done. You jump from one facet of this pain to the other so seamlessly and every moment is new but just as painful as the last building and building so powerfully.
Oh yup that went exactly as I thought it would and now our brief tranquility is just being fully torn apart by this horrible horrible feeling and this truly horrible sense of things just on their path to going very wrong. I think you've done really well again to portray how that little spiral happens.
Oh this is really starting to get even more painful than I thought now, this message with the gun and what happened earlier and the current plan are more than just painful. They seem almost ominous now.
Well here we go, it seems our protagonist is resorting to this rage they feel just being let out through this bb gun and well, I hope somehow this doesn't end up leading to something potentially even worse. At the moment things are on such a knife's edge its hard to say.
Well here we go, I really hope this doesn't lead to some sort of horrible fall for this person trying to do something they are perhaps not at the ideal age to be doing. It really feels like we're heading towards some pain here.
Oh dear here we go. Well at least it seems this person hasn't suffered an injury but I imagine the neighbor angel might not end too terrible well especially if this person is in fact living alone here now that the daughter has left and we're not mentioning those strange people in this chapter.
Okay well it seems the neighbor is calm for the moment and we're instead seeing this person go ahead and deal with the bit of danger that was present there. I am still very worried about what might happen but this feels oddly nice to see the person able to return to a bit of good work again and not wallow in everything else.
Well that's quite an interesting one to end on. Ultimately we've got his person finding what appears to be a tiny bit of peace and honestly I will take this tiny little rest top in the highway to pain central that we've been on so far.
Okayy...this is an interesting one. Once again the person seems a bit more aware than I was expecting while at the same time there's enough bits of for lack of a better term fog that seems to suggest all is not as it seems.
Oh wow, well this is interesting. We're diving into a diary here and I have a feeling we're about to see some sort of recollection from before this person's condition reached this point and I have a feeling its going to end up being somehow even painful than what we've seen upto this point.
Oh yes that is hitting all of the notes I was worried about it hitting and we are not pulling any punches in the slightest here. Oh dear. Well, let's see where this one is going to end up going there. The start already confirms a lot of things and of course heightens the feelings already built up so far.
Oh dear, this second person writing there by a person who is clearly losing the ability to really function well and knowing that its going to happen is incredibly powerful and honestly terrifying in a way that not even horror quite manages to match there.
Oh this is arguably worse than the previous ones, and the way the person actually ends up reacting to said entry definitely seals the deal on requiring a bunch more tissues here. You somehow manage to keep on hitting new heights for painfulness.
Ohhhh well this is quite the reveal. This appears to be written from that other partner's perspective. Oh that is somehow still even more painful to see, to see the final words of someone who is experiencing their loved one just forget everything slowly until it could extend to entirely forgetting them.
Oh these fears coming through are just brutal on our hearts here. Wow, I mean it sone thing to see this whole effect in the earlier chapters as we see it all happen to this persona and we see what they experience, but this, to see the other person have to watch it happen just compounds onto that experience just with a multiplier of pain there.
Oh my well this is really coming in now, and the fact that you put in the detail of the smudged ink to show an obvious state of distress as all of this was written is once again that little cherry on top that just elevates this to yet another level.
AHhhhhhhh well this is just hitting new heights somehow yet again. So we have confirmation that this person did in fact die from something and it seems to be something that took them away at a somewhat younger age given the gap in time from this news to the latest entry and how quickly cancer can works its horribleness.
Well that just puts these two paths together in a horrifying painful collection of sadness and its just incredibly well done but also incredibly painful to read. I genuinely have to go for tissues for that one.
Well isn't that powerful. The fact that this is still only half of the story is making me very worried how much sadness I may find on the other side but I think at this point I simply have no choice but to read it. These characters are too powerful.
Aaaaand that's it for this one.
Overall: Overall, its just incredibly powerful here. The way you introduce these grievances one by one and never repeat the same one but simply build, just one little problem at a time to pain this terrifying and very sad picture that just constantly builds on itself. Its an incredible piece here. I can't wait to see how you've closed this out.
As always remember to take what you think was helpful and forget the rest.
Stay Safe
Kate
Hello darling~
Wow. Wow, wow, wow. I'm kind of at a loss for words. This was just such a powerful, gripping, emotional read. I think it's one of the best pieces I've ever read on this site. Really, this was like a professionally published work.
Your writing is gorgeous. You have a clear and unique voice—it's authentic and entirely your own, and that's pivotal since that's not something that can be taught. Having your own voice, as a writer, is arguably an innate thing—especially a voice as special and well-developed as yours. It's very impressive (and rare). And that's part of what made this piece so compelling.
I think you did a great job with telling this story. It felt true to life and realistic. As I was reading this work, after a certain point, it dawned on me that our narrator was unreliable, and I started to suspect that maybe he had some form of dementia. I'm actually really glad I was able to guess that, because it means you wrote this in a way that was accurate: the story and the characters felt so lived-in and real that I was able to intuit what the situation might be and where this piece was going. You dropped just enough clues to make the reveal—and the conclusion—feel earned and honest. It was foreshadowed well.
The love these characters had for each other was beautifully described—it leapt off the page—and it was heartbreaking to read how these differing illnesses ravaged each of them in differing ways, especially how it turned our narrator into a ghost of his former self, according to his own wife. And the tragedy of him not realizing what was happening to her, or to himself, was just... man, this story packs a wallop. It really does. The emotion hits the reader like a freight train, and that's because you nailed it. You nailed this piece, you nailed the writing. The heartbreak, just like the character's love for each other, also dances off the page and devastates the reader—just as it should. You're really masterful at capturing emotion and getting the reader to feel exactly what you want them to feel, experience exactly what they're meant to experience.
I'm sorry, I wish I had some constructive criticism to give, but I really don't. Even though I have never been in a situation like this before—I have never experienced anything remotely similar—this story still completely knocked the wind out of my sails. I'm just a puddle after reading it, honestly: it was so effective and moving and just... yeah. Really terrific.
Some other things I enjoyed: it was well-paced. Everything flowed very nicely. I liked how we got to see different sides of our narrator—sometimes sad and pitiful, sometimes confused, sometimes filled with rage; sometimes certain his wife had been kidnapped, other times less clear on where she had gone—because it really captured his deteriorated mental state and the ravages of his disease. Although no one in my own family has experienced anything like this, I do know people with relatives that have had Alzheimer's or something similar, and this reminded me of the stories they would tell and just how different their loved ones could behave, changing from hour to hour or day to day.
Your descriptions and imagery were wonderful—lovely to read, utterly beautiful. It was very easy to picture everything. I liked the way you chose to break the story up, and how each chapter revealed new information, uncovering more of the picture for us until, finally, the whole portrait was revealed. I liked that you chose to end with the wife's diary entries—God, they were gut-wrenching to read, but in a good way. Again: very powerful and stunning; so compelling and captivating, the emotion incredibly raw and real.
Anyway, yeah. I loved this. Really and truly, with my entire heart, I loved this. You're an excellent writer and this is a commendable piece.
Fantastic work! Bravo. You've just earned yourself a new fan.
Heya simpleJ,
Shady here with a review for you this fine Review Day. My style tends to be pointing out specific things as I read that stand out to me, both positive and negative, and then giving a summary at the end of anything I noticed as I was reading. Let's jump right in...
Okay so at the end of chapter one, I have some thoughts. The overwhelming one is I feel like I am missing context. At first, I thought that it was a letter your protagonist was writing to presumably his? (though I'm not sure on pronouns tbh) wife. He seems elderly and nostalgic looking back on his life. But it wasn't italicized and it didn't end like a letter. But there was no description of the setting and no dialogue nor sign off so I was surprised to see the chapter ending so soon.
So, I think in general, giving a bit more context would be good. He sounds like an interesting narrator for an interesting story, but I feel as though I am lacking significant context and I feel like that should be cleared up a bit more before the end of chapter one.
Ooh, interesting! So my current theory is he is either in a nursing home or at home with a home nurse and suffering from some sort of Alzheimer's or dementia. It's actually getting really sad here in chapter two. He seems so lonely and vaguely confused and I feel really bad for him.
Awww oh my goodness this is SO sad and I feel SO bad for this poor guy, I hope his wife isn't dead <33 (although I have this sinking feeling in my gut that he is indeed a widower and has like an at-home nurse and this is just going to be an absolutely gut-wrenching story all-around).
Oh. My. Goshhhh. You are absolutely breaking my heart with this story, I'm like half-tearing up from this. I've never read a story about dementia from the perspective of the patient and this is absolutely gut-wrenching writing. Especially the line about 'would I know why if my English was better?' -- like ahhh that's so raw and powerful and an absolute blow to the gut. I feel so, so bad for your narrator and you are doing SUCH a good job of getting me emotionally invested in your story and your character. I haven't read something that emotionally impacted me to this degree in quite a while.
Oh GOSH I have SUCH a bad feeling that something bad is going to happen >.>
I cut out some chunk of this quote because there's no need for me to quote the whole section but at the start you explicitly say that the squirrels are not who he's waiting for and then a few short paragraphs later he says that they are who he's waiting for. This could just be a case of unreliable narrator since you've already set him up as having dementia but it feels a little odd to me all the same. I would suggest removing the first mention of squirrels. Perhaps you could replace it with birds landing on the fence? idk. It just feels odd to go "there are squirrels that I ignore -- ah squirrels, just what I was waiting for" you know? But also this is a minor critique so feel free to do with it what you will. I may not have even noticed it had I not been reading this with the intent of giving feedback and therefore reading it more closely than I would a piece of fiction I am reading for recreation.
Ahhhhhh my heart is broken you are SO good at using emotive language this is the most tragic story I've read in so long. In a few short chapters, you've made me fall in love with your protagonist even though I don't even know his name or ethnicity/appearance and now you're ripping my heart out with these journal entries.
Honestly, this is very, very well done and you deserve major props for how well you combined all these together. Usually, I tend to view journal entries as lazy ways for info-dumps, but (so far -- I've only read the first one as I'm writing this) this seems very different than usual and in this case is a very, very clever tool to be able to share some of the backstory from the first-person limited perspective you've set up, especially since we have an unreliable narrator we're trying to glean from. It was a really great idea and very well executed!
Ahh, I was right!
Shh was using dementia because it's easier to spell for me hahabut I wanted to say that it feels really nice when you as a reader are able to figure out plot-points before they are properly revealed. That's our jobs as authors, to foreshadow and point towards hints so that the reader can put things together. And I just wanted to say that you did a really nice job of that ^^ reading this gave me the "aha I was right!" victorious moment and hit of dopamine you want your readers to get and is an indication that your foreshadowing was on point throughout. Great job!This is another one of those moments I mentioned in my most recent comment ^^ her first entry that he read about the poison eating her innards made me wonder if she had cancer and I was fairly certain that the correct conclusion was that she had passed away from cancer but this gave me confirmation that I was correct and helpful in orienting my brain that I am in fact interpreting this entire tragic story correctly.
~~~
Okay! Summary time!
I feel like a lot of what I had to say above was a similar vein and train of thought so I don't want to repeat myself too terribly much, but my takeaway is that this is an absolutely gut-wrenching story of love and loss and is incredibly well-done. I think I take back what I said about needing more explanation in the first chapter. You could perhaps think about re-structuring the chapter divisions if you wanted to so the first chapter ends with a bit more clarity that our narrator is a man with Alzheimer's disease, but honestly, the pacing evened out very quickly after I complained and started making a lot more sense.
As I believe I mentioned above, I don't think I've ever read a story from the perspective of someone with the Alzheimer's disease themselves. It's SUCH a tragic illness for everyone involved and I honestly don't see much representation of it in media, but especially not from the perspective of the person who is experiencing the decline rather than the caretakers. I think you did a really nice job of hitting me right in the feels as I read this and really building an emotional connection right from the very start that makes me care about your narrator very much and feel so terrible for him and his family. This is such a tragic, raw, real theme that could happen to anyone and I feel like you approached it in a very respectful manner. Like, I don't have Alzheimer's and so therefore obviously can't speak for people who do. But you seem to do a great job of balancing his struggles (forgetting his wife passed and being surprised she didn't get groceries, kind of sort of noticing the reactions of people when he mentions her but not really grasping what they mean, etc.) without utterly infantilizing him in the process.
All-in-all, this is a really good story and you should be proud of it. If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to ask and I am happy to elaborate further! (Or if you wanted any feedback I didn't address in this review). Otherwise, I shall see if I have the time to review the section chunk of this story later this evening because I desperately want to know how it ends. I am fully invested at this point and ready for you to continue breaking my heart xD
Hope this helped! Keep writing!
~Shady
P.S. here's your obligatory Review Day Fahrvergnügen and Schadenfreude to go in the stats tomorrow xD