Harold used to send me tiny messages after we were married, and he would conceal them in strange locations, like glove compartments, coffee filters, or even taped under the laundry detergent bottle. He would say, “Just in case you forget how loved you are.”
It’s me reminding him now.
Little slips were the first. Where he placed the car keys, names, and appointments. One day, he stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence and asked, “Wait… what’s your name again?” He had this perplexed, guilty expression as if he should have known, but it was hidden behind a barred door.
I gave him a cheek kiss, smiled, and repeated.
Since then, each day has been a combination of muscle and memory. Even if he doesn’t always remember how, he knows I’m his. I’m “the nice lady,” “the scarf girl,” or “peach blouse” depending on the situation. My name is never exactly right. He still gets excited when he sees me approaching, though.
We sat on this bench in the rear. “The waiting place,” as he refers to it. He spontaneously started saying so one day; no one ever instructed him to do so. He will silently sit outside in his Windy Oaks cap at sunset, scanning the horizon as if something significant is about to occur.
“What are you waiting for out here?” I once asked him.
He said, “She always comes around now,” with a slight smile and his eyes fixed front. The lady with the gentle eyes.
I didn’t realize he wasn’t waiting for me until then. He was holding out for another person. Someone from his history. I had a knot in my gut, but I had no idea who this “woman with the kind eyes” was. His memory wasn’t simply fading; it was evolving and altering in ways I couldn’t comprehend.
I made an effort to ignore it. Harold had always been a romantic and a dreamer, after all. Perhaps it was nostalgia, a brief flashback to his younger years. However, he would sit on that bench every evening with the same expression, as though he were waiting for an unreal train.
I initially joined him. We would sit quietly until the garden was bathed in a golden glow as the sun sank beneath the trees. Most of the time, he would nod and grin when I asked him about his day and reminded him of our past activities together. His eyes were still far away, but they were always warm when they met mine. However, there were quiet times when I could tell he wasn’t really with me because his eyes would occasionally stray to the horizon.
I couldn’t ignore it any longer, even though I didn’t want to face it. I wasn’t prepared for the way I was losing him. It was the slow disintegration of everything we had created, not simply the faces or names that had been forgotten. The recollections of our first date, the inside jokes, the love letters, and the vacations we had gone. It all appeared to dissipate, moving like sand between his fingers and through the crevices of his thoughts.
I sat next to him on the bench and I tried to discuss it with him. “Harold, who is the woman you’re waiting for?” I replied, my voice quivering.
His eyes softened after a tiny crease in his brow. For the first time in days, he gave me a serious look. His voice was hardly audible above a whisper when he said, “She’s the one who used to wait for me at the station.” “The person who assured me she would always be there.”
My heart fell. So I knew what this was. It was more than a fleeting recollection. Before I met him, it was a part of his life. He had loved someone else before me, a different woman. Someone he had been waiting for, and perhaps he was still clinging to that love in his dying brain.
I inhaled deeply before reaching out and grasping his hand. My voice caught as I said, “Harold, I’m here.” “I’ve arrived. I also adore you. I simply don’t know how to get in touch with you anymore.
A glimmer of recognition flickered across his eyes as he softly grasped my palm, but it vanished like a passing shadow. He gave me a smile, but it wasn’t the one I recognized. He seemed to be smiling at someone far away since it was softer and more remote.
Weeks passed, and although his memory stayed in the past, I sat with him on that bench and watched the landscape transform around us with every sunset. Alzheimer’s disease, according to the physicians, is slow, brutal, and irreversible. I had hoped Harold wouldn’t be affected in this way. I had hoped that I could help him, that I could get him back to me. However, the more I tried, the more I understood how powerless I was.
One evening, following another silent sunset, I sat next him, the weight of unsaid words pressing down on my heart. How much longer I could wait was a mystery to me. After all these years of encouraging him and helping him achieve his goals, it felt like I was seeing him disappear—disappearing into a world I couldn’t understand.
I muttered, more to myself than to Harold, “I’ll be here.” “If you forget my name, I’ll still be waiting here.”
While preparing breakfast the following morning, I discovered something new. Harold had a small piece of folded paper in his coat pocket. The handwriting was his, yet it looked different, and it made my heart skip a beat. Instead of the confident, forceful strokes I remembered from years ago, the letters were wobbly.
I carefully opened it and read the contents, tears welling up in my eyes as I took it all in:
“I’m waiting for you, lady with the nice eyes.
I always will.
I was unable to breathe for a while. His remarks were for me, but he had written them for someone he believed was coming after him. Then something clicked inside of me. I was the woman with the gentle eyes, not some faraway recollection from his past. All along, he had been waiting for me.
I was at a loss for words, but I realized that this was more than simply me looking after him. This was about us and the relationship we had developed over the years. Even if his memory was failing, our love remained unwavering. It had just become a different kind of love, a more patient, quieter kind. It dawned on me then that I didn’t have to constantly remind him who I was. In his heart, he knew who I was.
As the sun started to drop that day, I sat down on the bench with him once more. He was waiting there already, staring at the horizon.
I said, “I’m here, Harold,” with a calm voice and a soft palm on his. “I am and always will be here.”
For a minute, there was a glimpse of the man I had fallen in love with all those years ago as he slowly turned his head and softly looked into my eyes. His smile wasn’t far away this time. It was authentic.
“I understand,” he muttered. “I understand.”
And I realized something more profound than I had previously realized in that instant. Love is about being present, not simply about remembering. It’s about supporting one another despite imperfections and changes in the world. It’s about knowing in your heart that your relationship is resilient enough to withstand any adversity.
I came to the realization that I didn’t need to cling to the past while we sat together and watched the sun set. All I needed was to be with him right now.
Perhaps all we need to do is to be present, love sincerely, and let go of our fear of the things beyond our control.
If you’re experiencing something similar, keep in mind that sometimes the best way to demonstrate love is to just be there every day, even when things are difficult. By doing this, you might discover that love in all of its manifestations never really goes away. All it does is change.
If this speaks to you or someone you know, kindly share it. We all need to be reminded sometimes that love is always worth the wait.
