Lewy ~An Inheritance of Erasure~

“We will always remember you.” His words were as silent as the stone you both were looking at, but it was too early to even notice the doubt in them. There was simply too much happening, constantly. He was always the strong one. With his emotions, his voice, and just the way he lived. But not this time… this time he was simply a broken man. You held his hand while you two started walking away from the grave; he did not grip at all. He simply walked with no direction but your own. You tried to reassure him; he did not respond. You gripped his hand tighter; he did not respond. You pleaded with him to talk; he walked to her old room and closed the door. Sometimes, life does not provide the moment to grieve in peace; it simply forces you to go on. The only consolation was that you two were still not alone… despite how much he wanted to be at that moment. He was withdrawn, so you decided to leave him to his thoughts for a while… while life dragged you two along anyways. It started with a silent routine, a ritual. He would still eat, he would still answer… albeit with just simple words… and then he would spend the rest of the day in his studio, not to paint but just sit. He would look at the paintings of her, painting she made from her childhood to her last one. He never painted; he never had the courage to take the brush no matter how much you asked him. You were left to your thoughts. When was the last time he smiled… when was the last time you smiled? After the diagnosis, was there even a single real one? Or were they just faces you two put on to reassure her no matter how much pain you both were going through? To be strong… that is why you needed each other, right? So, you had to be there for him; you had to live on for his sake too. You spent those days reminding him you are there. You did what you could. Months passed like years. Finally, real conversations were happening… but there was something off about them too. He was stumbling a lot, always trying to find the perfect word. He was a lot more vigilant to help, but he was making many mistakes. When he went shopping, he would always miss some items. One time, he forgot to take the change. Thinking about it, this had been going on for a time actually, even before… all this. It was a lot smaller then. Difficulty putting his words onto paper, using his phone to calculate even simple things. You had thought all that weight was making him confused and distracted; his attention was focused on a lot more pressing matters, and he just was not listening. Despite him brushing it off, you decided to make an appointment and get him checked out just in case. “Still a lot of… stuff going on in my head.” The way he said it, the way he smiled after… he wasn’t even convincing himself. After the anniversary of her leaving you two. You thought one way or another you would convince him. You never thought he would not need convincing at all. That day, you got a call from him. His voice was obviously panicked, but he was trying his best to hide it. It wasn’t working. “D…dear? I… I think I might be lost. Can you pick me up?” It took an hour to find him with the vague directions he kept giving. He was on the other side of town, fidgeting in a corner. The way he recognized your car and jumped in it gave away how terrified he was. He kept scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. “S…sorry! I wanted to get some flowers for… y’know… I searched around for the place I used to frequent for you, but... I couldn’t find it. I think it got closed… hehe…” He gave a goofy smile, trying to file this away as a funny incident. You smiled back, but you both knew… at least one of you was only pretending to. The question came to your mind again. When was the last time either of you really smiled? You are both trying to be strong. That’s all there is to it. He didn’t argue against the visit after. First the grave… then the doctor. The process went just like hers. A visit that showed much to be worried about. A visit that turned into tests. A visit that turned into a hospital stay, an invasive procedure, and finally… a diagnosis. Dementia. Early onset Alzheimer’s… All this time… he had been struggling before her and neither of you had noticed. How could you? There was so much going on. Too much… You saw the way he listened to the doctor. His eyes barely held their tears but he was not surprised, not one bit. Only terrified… Deep inside, who knows how long ago he was beginning to suspect it? When his tears began to fall, he finally said with a shaky voice: “I’m going to wilt on my daughter’s grave.” The next few months were a blur of trying to hold him together. The treatments, the activities, the conversations… they were reminders of two lovers trying and failing to get through another inevitable. The process was slow; whether agonizingly or thankfully, neither of you could tell. It was just subtle, but still painful. There were times when you were chatting as you used to that he would end up getting frustrated with words. He would describe something and not quite name it. Sometimes he was angry even. He would keep asking the same questions, forgetting things you just talked about. It was slow, but that didn’t change the fact that it was still happening. Then you convinced him to pick up the brush again. He would paint, but there was a constant grimace on his face. He used to spend hours on every single detail; it was one of his greatest joys. Now it’s the same again… but it looked a lot like torture. He would keep looking at a piece and just beat himself up over not knowing what he isn’t seeing. You tried to show him how much better he was by drawing alongside him, but despite the few smiles, he was still in distress. “No, no, no. It’s… it’s… it’s all wrong.” He said, shaking his head. The doubt and the worry in his voice were the echo of the fading memories in his head and the paintings he made… they were like the blueprints for its process. He hated it. Watching his greatest passion, his expertise, becoming the evidence of what he is losing every day… it was unbearable. Each day he would try again; each day he would come to dinner a defeated man. It wasn’t working; none of this was, but you are both trying to be strong. That’s all there is to it. One night, you found him out of your bed. He was getting dressed up, getting ready to leave. “We ran out of… of…” The way he paused to find the word and the way his face changed from worry to fury was terrifying, not just worrisome. “HIBISCUS! I will go and buy some.” His voice no longer held the self-confidence of the man you loved. It’s 3 AM, and you remember the jar that had it. It was still full. But it was pointless to argue. You remembered the words of the doctor. That arguing with a dementia patient head-on about something might make the situation worse. Despite how worrisome the situation is, you convinced him that you will deal with it and that he should go to bed. You could tell he was feverish. When he sat on the bed still dressed in his outside clothes, you could see a moment of lucidity coming to him. A brief moment to finally voice his fears. Everything else had been broken down, after all. “I don’t want to live like this.” He finally voiced out. It was a tired, ghost of a sound. Then he turned to you. At least his eyes still held the conviction they held the moment he proposed to you, the moment he said, “I do” on your wedding day. They held the love, but they were tired. “But I don’t want to leave you alone too. I love you.” He rasped. It was a confused sentence. A man who didn’t want to burden you with his life, but also with his death. He was a trapped, broken man, and once again, he left himself to you. He fell asleep quickly, without protest, and you decided to get some medicine. Something for the fever… yeah… something for the fever. While you were leaving, you could hear him mumble in his sleep. “Where is she?” Something you both wish you knew the answer to. While you walked, you remembered the times you went out to get the pain meds for her. You were used to finding the drugstores open at night; her leukaemia made sure you had to visit them often. Lewy could never handle leaving her side for so many years, so you handled the small work. She was his everything. Remembering the boisterous, confident, warm man he used to be before… The memories weren’t helping, but they occupied you still until you reached the front of the store. One could only hope to never see this place again, but you now had a new reason to. Of course, life still dragged you along to here of all places. Once you returned home, Lewy wasn’t in the bed, and the door to his studio was open. The scene before you was a disaster. The walls were painted with a furious splash of colours, wallpapers and canvases torn apart, glass everywhere on the floor, and in the middle of it all… He was sitting by the wall, knees curled up, looking at a distance, at something neither of you could see. He was holding a canvas tightly to his chest as if it was his heart. Right next to him was a painting you tried to draw for him; he wasn’t looking at it. He wasn’t crying like he used to. His expression held more than misery; it was confusion. The face of a man trying to comprehend why he is in sorrow. His breathing was heavy and laboured. But when he finally laid his eyes on you, all of that melted away. His expression soured into one of resentment and betrayal. His voice was a snarl. “Why… why didn’t you tell me she was here!?” His gaze bore into your eyes, searching for an answer that is impossible to accept again. His grip loosened, and you finally caught a glimpse of what he was holding. Her first drawing, from so long ago. A memory from a lifetime ago was now evidence for a false memory. What was there to say to him? What was there to do? Fighting him over a loss… Trying to convince him of a truth that is ugly at best… or sitting with him until she comes back, when in truth, until eventually he even forgets what he is waiting for. “WHERE IS SHE!?!” he yelled out. You know not where she is. But here you are, confronted by the man you are losing, haunted by the daughter you lost. Many answers keep coming to your mind, but there is only one question at the back of it: “When did loving become the same as grieving?”