I stepped off the bus, savoring the taste of my toothpaste. I’ve been getting better at brushing my teeth and hair recently, since starting my meds. Obviously, it was expensive, but I wanted to be the person I was before Gigi got sick. That Sadie smiled, put thought into her outfits, didn’t feel so heavy, and remembered things. Like grabbing her coat, crap. With the morning chill biting at my neck (it’s April, for god’s sake, why is it 40 degrees out), my thoughts are suddenly filled with the impending monthly bill. I’m barely scraping by as is, and I just heard they might increase the cost of care due to “corporate financial software needs being overstrained.” But I will make it through. I need the best for her. It’s just for the next few years, I tell myself, almost unable to bear the thought of hospice care right now. With Alzheimer’s, even 68-year-old Gigi, who should have many more happy years, is deteriorating, and fast.

But I do, I do bear the thought. I force myself to think about it because it’s inevitable. Gigi will die, but before that, she will be comfortable. She will be happy, and I don’t care if I need to test drugs for people again, or do one of those bait car gigs. A mix of dread and anxiety pools in my stomach like mud. At this point, it’s an old friend, one I welcome with weary yet outstretched arms.

Whatever. Visiting Gigi was the highlight of my week, aside from seeing new leaves sprout on Winston and whenever the coffee pot at work isn’t empty by lunch. I always made sure to carve out a few hours for her, either spent talking to her about mundane things, pretending to be a new hired nurse, or on the worst days. Those days, she yelled, cried, sometimes even broke things. I wonder what it’s like to be in her head. To have your memories stolen from you, your spirit broken by illness. It is a cruel thing, I thought to myself, to be just a shell of who you once were and to not even know.

….

The building looms before me, white brick and carefully trimmed bushes filling my sight. I glance at the budding new flowers in pots by the door, then look in, my eyes fixating on the parrot painting near the entryway. I have named it Charlie, for no reason other than a laugh and the comfort of seeing something stay the same. As I step into the nursing home, I smell a caramel pastry from the bakery a few feet away, and my steps falter, but for just a moment. It’s fine, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter; she’s not here. Her face taunts me from the back of my mind, mischievous smile as always, eyes twinkling like they always did after she laughed. Long fiery hair in my face. All remaining thoughts of her fly away when Lily, the stuck-up, perfectly manicured, office manager, asks for my name. I think I hate her, just a little bit. I have no idea or reason why.

“Hello. Sadie Tonon, checking in to see Gianna Tonon.” I say smoothly as her nails click-clack on the keyboard. I am suddenly aware of my chipped purple fingernails, torn from anxiety during a manic episode a week ago, my scuffed boots, worn from love, the small hole in my sweater near the neck, where it shouldn’t be. I look out of place among these designer bags, the expansive perfume clouding my head.

“Alright…you can head down there now, honey.” Why in all nine hells would she be calling me honey? She’s probably like 32. That has to be illegal.

Boots clacking softly on the black and white tiled floor, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Dark brown hair cropped to my shoulders, thrifted clothes hanging slightly on my still gaunt frame, even though I’ve been making a conscious effort to eat three meals a day, and bright red spots on my cheeks from the wind. Huh. Perchance it’s due to the fact that most of my meals consist of canned tuna and frozen vegetables these days. It doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. People might not even be real; they could just be made up in my head, and I could actually just be the only person in this universe. So, therefore, bills aren’t either. Haha, take that, world.

I near Gigi’s door in the long-term section of the facility. Gianna, it reads. But if they knew anything about anything, they would know she was Gigi. Glamorous, loved, Gigi. I pushed open the door, letting out a small sigh at the sight of her sleeping form. Of course, I was disappointed I wouldn’t get to visit, but on a small scale, also relieved. Relieved that she wouldn’t get the chance to yell at me, or even worse, think I was someone else. Those days were the hardest. I cross the room to her bedside and fill my mind with visions of when she does remember me, when her face lights up with delight as she babbles on about how she has to get refreshments for such an occasion, and oh, could you get me my glasses? How could I worry about making ends meet month after month, when her infectious laughter fills the room?

I see her, lying limp on the bed. Her grayish hair has random patches of dark brown due to her meds. Before, she would have gone to the hairdresser at the sight of even a few gray hairs; now it is patchy and thin. The image of her that is no longer a glamorous form, but still a loved one, swims before me as the first tears start to fall.

….

I hold her hand, blinking away the last of the tears that now dot her bed. I need to leave. Visitation hours end soon. But I simply cannot, not quite yet. Instead, for the first time in a long time, I talk to her. Really talk to her about life and…other stuff. Very specific, I know. But secrets pour out of me, along with the anxiety and sadness. Memories with her wash over me, like a balm to my pain, contrary to how I used to respond.

For once, I feel as though things will be okay. Because even if I lose my job, or Gigi…leaves, life will go on. I will recover and live as she could not. One day, I will look back on my life and be glad I stayed. One day, living won’t be so hard, and the corrupt system holding my arm with its skeletal grip will let go. We will all let go. Our bodies rot, and our bones grow cold, but flowers will sprout nevertheless.