Three years ago today. I’ve been thinking of late, wondering how long it’s really been. I couldn’t tell, couldn’t remember. Although I’m in “Facebook prison”, my memories are visible; I just can’t comment on or like posts, or set out anything new. But at least I got to see this.
3 years ago…
I just went outside to smoke. My good friend George (it’s strange, isn’t it, that everyone should have a friend named George?) came walking past with his morning Starbucks. He wanted to know how I was doing. He knows I’ve had a rough time lately. But when I answered him, he said, “I kind of knew it was going to happen sooner or later, but I’m meeting my wife at 12 to be put into a nursing home.”
Shock. I just asked, “Why?” But I knew. I just couldn’t fathom how fucking heartless she really was.
“Well, I’m gettin’ to where I can’t do a lot of the things I used to do.”
What do you say to something like that? I knew he’d been diagnosed, and I’d seen him once when he looked like he really was lost. One day he walked past me and didn’t recognize me at all.
It was only months ago. In the summer. He would come by while walking his dog, and stop for a visit. I fed his dog bacon treats, and it had taken two years for me to get her trust; she was a particular kind of hunting dog and her instincts were sharp. She was always on guard.
George talked about painting, taking a class at Howard County Community College. He told me how he used to work on defense systems for fighter jets at Northrup Grumman. He programmed a flight simulator that was really groundbreaking. He’d been all over the place doing so many good things.
I gave George my phone number. Of course, I’ll want to visit him, but I know he won’t call. I know I’ll never find him. I know I just said goodbye to him for the last time. Very soon, George will not be George anymore.
I already miss him. I’m already crying hot tears that mock me while they roll down my face. Big, burning tears that tell me I’m weak, that I got too close, and once again, I got hurt. That I should never open my heart, or wear it on my sleeve the way I do. That I am a fool and a cupcake.
I’m not just crying for myself, though. I’m not that selfish. I cry for George, because of all the unfair things that can happen to a human being, this disease may be the most unkind. To lose one’s own identity and life’s memories a little at a time is a cruel, vicious fate.
I’ll miss him terribly. Today the world is a sadder place. And once more, my heart is broken…
****
And that was three years ago. I never saw George again. His wife still walks by with the dog, but I can’t even pet the animal who still looks back at me when they’ve passed by. Dogs never forget. She knows I’m a friend, but she doesn’t understand why I don’t rush up to her, bacon strips in hand, ready to give a neck scratch. George’s wife never seemed to like me much. She doesn’t like me near her dog.
I don’t care. I miss my friend. I think of him often, and I wonder if there are any days left when he remembers me. I wonder if he still paints. I wonder a lot of things.
I surely do miss my friend George…
Memoirs of an American Asshole 