Not the man I married.

Not the man I married.

She gazed fondly at the old photograph on her dressing table.  He looked so handsome in his dark morning suit, he was slim then and had a full head of hair. It was their wedding photo, even their Granddaughter said he looked real fit then, (whatever that means)!  She looked down at him now.  Bald headed, pot-bellied, snoring like a walrus beside her.  She looked back at that photo and smiled, not the man I married she thought.

He started mumbling nonsense in his sleep and her mind returned to the present.   

That means he’s dreaming.   He’ll be waking up soon, she thought.   Always dreams just before he wakes up.   Her face scrunched up with anguish, she looked at the clock, 6am on the dot.   

“Bloody Dementia. He forgets everything else, why can’t he forget to wake up until 10am and give me a chance to get some work done before starting his constant repetitive questions?”   He snorted and gave a gut-wrenching cough.

“Aaagh!” She struggled out of bed and started to dress as fast as she could.

He sat up with a start and gazed at her without recognition. “Who are you?” He asked.

“I’m Mildred, your wife,” she said.

“Who am I?”

“You’re John Adams, my husband.”

“Wh--”

“You’re at home, 27 Bairstow Ave, Rayleigh, Essex.   We’ve lived here for eleven years.”  She said.

“How did you know what I was going to ask?” said John.

“Because we start each day with exactly the same ritual, we've done so every day for the last two years, It’s like every day is Groundhog Day.”

“Sorry?”

"Never mind, just read your pad, it’s on your bedside table.”

“I can’t see!” 

“Your glasses are on top of your pad, with the pencil.”

He put on his spectacles and arranged them to his liking.   “Thank you.” He opened the pad and read the first page, “Mildred.”

“Yes?”

“Wh--”

“It’s 6:07am on a bright sunny Tuesday morning 4^th July 2017.   Put your pyjamas in the linen basket by the door.   Your day clothes are on the left-hand side of your wardrobe, underwear and socks the second drawer down.” 

“Mmm,” he dropped his pyjamas on the floor and bent to retrieve them.

“Leave them there,” she said, “the maid will clean up after you.  Just get dressed, there’s love.   We have an appointment with Doctor Smithers at the medical centre today; we're the first appointment, 8am sharp.    So, let’s get breakfast out of the way then we can tackle a shower and shave.” 

"You don't need a shave," he observed.  

She smiled that's a new one, picked up his discarded pyjamas and deposited them in the basket.

“Shall--”

“No thank you, I’ve been making our breakfast for the last six years, and I’m getting quite good at it now.”

He kissed her on the cheek.  “You really are good to me you know,”   She smiled again.   “I'll tell Mildred, my wife, when I see her.”

“Oh really!    Who do you think I am then?”

“The maid?   You said...”

“Just finish dressing John, and then come down to breakfast.   The kitchen is down the stairs turn left.”

.-...-.

they were sitting in the waiting room when the speaker announced 'Mr Adams, please go to room four, Mr Adams room four'.  

“8:10am, he’s running late,” John said as they entered the consulting room and sat in the two chairs across from doctor Smithers.

“And, how is he feeling today Mr’s Adams?”

“With his hands,” John replied.

“Is the medication working?   Is he experiencing any problems?

“Well, I could do with a blowpipe to get the tablets down his throat,” Mildred said.   “And, two extra hands, one to open his mouth and one to keep it closed while I stroke his gullet until he swallows.”

“What will you be doing with your other hand?” he asked.

“Holding the blowpipe.”  She said.

“Ah!”   Dr Smithers nodded sagely.    “Good, good, anything else?”

“No, just the blowpipe spare hands, and a repeat prescription thank you, Doctor.”

“Sorry you can’t get a blowpipe on the NHS; try Toys R Us in the High street.   Good day to you both,” He typed something into his desk computer, “your repeat prescription will be waiting at reception.”

“There is one other thing Doctor,” said Mildred.   He nodded for her to continue.   “A sleep problem.”

“Go on.”

“He never sleeps beyond 6am.   Doesn’t allow me to get anything done before he’s up and asking his incessant questions, you know?”

“Put that down! Mr Adams, It’s a highly technical piece of equipment, it cost me an arm and a leg!”

John looked the doctor up and down, put the digital thingamabob down and said, “Who did they belong too?”

“Try Curtains R Us, Mrs Adams.   You need blackout curtains; don’t you see, it’s the light that rouses him so early.”   He glanced at his watch, “Well if that’s all, we are encroaching on the next time slot.”

“How long do we get?” John asked.

“Eight minutes per patient plus two for the turnover,” said Dr. Smithers.

“Don't you get a tea break?” John asked.

“Come to think on it, no!  Mister Adams--”

“John.   Call me John,” he said.   According to section 17 para 11 subpara 23 of the health and safety act 1987, you are entitled to five minutes break every two hours.    I’d factor that into your schedule if I were you.   Did you know that dementia can be selective Doctor?”

“Thanks', that's very interesting Mr Ad..., John.”

“Have a nice day Doctor.”

.-...-.

In the High Street, Mildred steered John into Curtains R Us and purchased suitable drapes for the bedroom.   It took an age to hang them, but John was gainfully employed holding and moving the ladder.  

The following morning, 6am came and went.   Mildred dressed silently and crept down the stairs to make a start on her chores without interruption. 

Damned fine doctor that Smithers.  What luxury, she thought,

as she turned on the baby alarm and contentedly washed the kitchen floor to the rhythm of John’s snoring.

She drew to mind the man in that photograph and smiled.  Not the man I married, but he's all mine.

1040 words