Am I Alive?

These days, I feel like a puzzle – a collection of pieces that don’t always seem to fit together, and half of the pieces are missing. I know my name, and most days, I know the names and faces of my children. When I hear music, I remember that I love to play the piano and sing, but I wouldn’t know what to do with my fingers if I tried to play, and I could never remember the words to my favorite songs.

I've heard them utter the word "dementia," and it sounds like a death sentence. I can never remember where I am. I know I am safe; the people around me are kind, and they call me by name like they know me, though I don’t know them. But my room is tiny, and I feel trapped in this space that isn’t mine. I remember my home – a dark green carpet and marble-topped tables that belonged to my mother in the living room, a piano in the corner. But that’s gone now. I know I can’t go back, but I’m not sure why.

I stare at the pictures that decorate my little room. I look at their smiling faces, and the tiniest voice in the back of my head tells me that they love me, but if they loved me, wouldn't they visit me? Wouldn't they take me away from this place? But they don't, and I'm left to wonder if there's anyone left who cares about me, who needs me, who even remembers me.

So, now I wander this tiny space with one short hallway like a lost ghost, unsure of who I am. I eat, I bathe, I take my medication; all of these things tell me that my body is alive. But some days I wonder – if even I have forgotten who I am, am I really alive?