Thank you for your comment. Some days we’re lucky. Some days the words are harder to come by.
I appreciate your insight and will see what I can do to possibly highlight how the disease affects the narrator. I hadn’t considered that, but now that you say it, I see it.
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Short Story / Foggy Days
Alzheimer’s begins at the periphery, shading small pieces. We are talking on the phone, my mother and I. I’m drying dishes, the phone between my right shoulder and cheek, a strip of my brown hair caught by the mouthpiece.
“Do you remember?” she asks again. “Do you remember that girl? That girl, what is her name? Oh what is her name? You know, that girl.”
I push my lips together so that I won’t finish her question for her, so that I won’t answer before she can finish asking. I close my eyes so that I won’t cry.
Alzheimer’s fades the edges, quietly, slowly. Then suddenly there is a hole in the middle of your favorite blanket.
I sit beside her in the doctor’s office, but I try not to look at her because if I look into her eyes, still so alive, into the new lines on her face, I will answer the doctor’s questions for her and take her home and tuck her into bed for a nap. That’s what she wants.
The chairs are hard, my legs are shaking. The carpet has three shades of brown woven together; it is ugly.
“What’s an island?” she repeats the doctor’s question, incredulous. “Well, that’s easy! It’s….” She holds out her hands and makes a circular shape. “It’s a thing, it’s an island.” She broke the nail on her index finger. “An island, you know.” She drops her hands, changes her tone and I remember how strong she still can be. “These questions are insulting. Of course I know what an island is.” I put my hand on hers and she pulls away.
Alzheimer’s saps away the personality and you walk on, making excuses, hiding mistakes, finishing sentences. Then suddenly there is a hole in your favorite blanket. But that blanket is your mother, grandmother, uncle, friend, and you cannot fix it.
I answer to whatever name she calls me. I remember that it is not a rational disease, there are no rules. Alzheimer’s fights dirty. It is taking away my mother, leaving this strange shell of her, tired, older, hunched slightly as if to stave off the confusion. I wonder sometimes what it feels like to be inside of her as she is losing herself.
And I fear someday I will know for myself.
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FrakKevin reviewed Version 1 -
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I really liked this and the title fits. It didnt gave a way the plot right away but made sense. I’m glad you showed us the conversation it just gave us a better idea of the simple things that slip her mind
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MacCrasik reviewed Version 1 -
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I was about to tell you to nix the blanket, it didn’t fit, then saw it mentioned again and got sad. I do like how you weave that thread through it. I would even say something at the beginning, like the fraying edges of the blanket.
saps away the personality = “their” personality? or were you going for subtlety here in that it changes the narrator’s personality as well?
I am impressed with your ability to capture the emotional struggle in words without using THE words. You purse your lips so you won’t answer the question, close your eyes so you won’t cry. And when she pulls her hand away! I struggle to achieve what you make look so easy.
KindredSpirit reviewed Version 1 -
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Since the piece is somewhat informal, you can personalize with more contractions: “What’s her name?”; there’s a hole; I’ll answer. Especially in dialogue, more realistic.
You start out using passive tense, “We are talking…” but in the doctor’s office you change to active, “I sit… I try…” Active fits better. At start, “We talk on the phone, my mother and I, as I dry…
“shading small pieces” doesn’t really work, doesn’t latch onto what Alzheimer’s does at the periphery, it spreads like an evil root, or describe pieces of what.
Awkward: “push” – I squeeze my lips…
You captured fading edges well but you repeated the part about the hole in the blanket. I’d only use it once or it loses its power. The second time works best because that’s when you relate it to the victim. Maybe the first time use a different analogy, “…quietly, slowly, like melting snow.”
Wish I could help with title, maybe, Fading Edges, or Eggshell, or Her Island. That’s difficult.
MARCH reviewed Version 1 -
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This was great and I liked how you use the blanket as a metaphor. I feel kind of bad for the daughter and can see that she’s frustrated at some points, but also freightend at the fact it could be her someday. Anyway I enjoyed reading this.
ParticoRomulus reviewed Version 1 -
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The ‘favorite blanket’ is a great metaphor. It gets to the core of security and attachment in the most positive way, and the ‘hole’ perfectly evokes the erosion of security as one’s relationship to a parent dissolves because of disease.
This does touch me personally, as my mom is going through some sort of radical memory loss. I understand so well the bit about her eyes… that’s very evocative.
My only critique would be your choice of category, as this does not seem like a short story or fiction of any sort. It is more of a journal, or excerpt from a memoir. In that sense, of course, don’t change it.
placidchaos reviewed Version 1 -
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I applaud your bravery for attacking a subject so obviously near the heart. I connect with emotion of this piece. I just had a grandmother pass away at the age of 96. She was never diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, but by the time she passed she was deep into the stages of dimentia and barely recognized anyone at anytime. I really like the metaphor of the blanket. It is something we, as readers, can see and touch and it pulls the emotion out with just a simple image.
All this having been said there are some basic things lacking in this story. The first thing is continuity. First the narrator is on the phone with her then suddenly without explantion she is sitting nest to her at the doctor’s office. Next the narrator is telling us all about the disease of Alzheimer’s. I would rather see the “Alzheimer’s begins at the periphery, shading small pieces.” I remember visiting my Grandmother and her calling me Wally, who is cousin of my mother’s, and asking about the twins. Quickly I explained I wasn’t Wally and there she was back to reality. That is a “Alzheimer’s begins at the periphery, shading small pieces.” It gives me the information without telling me outright.
I really enjoy the metaphor of the blanket, but maybe it can be expanded. I would like to see this blanket in more detail, in fact maybe it can be a blanket that was given to the narrator by the Grandmother or mother, I am no sure of the relation, and it is something the narrator is very attached to because of where it came from. Then it becomes not just a metaphor for the disease but an actual character, so to speak, in the story. It is something the narrator brings to her and covers her with. It becomes more and more frayed and at the point where the disease is at it’s final stages it starts to get a hole in the middle and to quickly fall apart.
I love the feeling you evoke through this piece. I just feel it could so much more rich than it already is. Keep writing. I look forward to reading further work or revisions
aquaruischick reviewed Version 1 -
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Tell us how the mom was before getting the disease. Give us more details and descriptions of how this changes all lives involved. I worked in a nursing home, so I know how this makes all involved. You should expand this piece. This will help others undtand and help cope with people in their lives who are struggling to understand the disease.
good luck and keep writing.
BrianA reviewed Version 1 -
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This piece is to the point and well written. THe interview with docyor was good inclusion. I couldn’t fault it technically. I won’t go on and waste credits. I have an 80 yo mother, largely ok – occassionly she can’t remember a word. Her mother was sad with `A’. In the end could not remember anyone, reverted to childhood and swore like a trooper. Years ago people never lived so old to experience it. Re title I think you have it with `favourite blanket’ or `a hole in your …’ Regarding this `Then suddenly there is a hole…you cannot fix it.’ These sentences `the idea’ appies equally I think to the person experiencing it. A mind that you relied on slowly filling with holes that you can’t mend. Anyway – good job. Guess you can see it reached me. Good luck with this.
nothing reviewed Version 1 -
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I wish you would expand it because it is a pretty powerful piece. Originally I thought when I’d read something so short it wouldn’t have been well written but this surprised me.
Having not known anybody with Alzheimer’s this was a great insight. You used metaphors well, it helped me see and understand the impact it has on a person.
SoulSide reviewed Version 1 -
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Nearly perfect. Very touching and I’m glad to have read it. You’ve got plenty of skill. I love works that are reminders of the frailty of the human condition. Mostly because they are the best preparations we can make.
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