She’d lost herself, she said

This is not a happy read, and if you feel it's not for you, perhaps it's best not to read it. I'll find an image soon.

Some people know I've been digging into the origins of what's now called Alzheimer's Disease for a while now. I'm no historian, and there's a lot more to research which will take time I might not have. I'm curious, and where I know fewer facts a story has begun to emerge.

Auguste D. was the 'case' where Alois Alzheimer did an autopsy to look at her brain after she died. This poem comes from some of my reading, taking from imagination what Auguste Deter's life might have been like before she was taken to the Asylum in Franfurt in 1901. It's an experiment and an exploration, both about the life of the individual and the society and times when she lived.

If you have anything that might improve my knowledge, I'd love to hear from you. This is probably an early draft, with more to come.

She’d lost herself, she said

Cooking and cleaning. I kept quiet.

Friends? No, I had Karl, and Karl had me.

I did his bidding, what he wanted me to be,

like Mother did, and her own mother too.

I was all he asked for, more. Now I am fifty.

My daughter's grown, she’s married well.

I taught her what I knew.

She lives the way I’ve lived.

I think I’ve let her down.

I hardly see her

but her eyes are red and sad.

We could have gone on until some kind of end.

I had a roof, enough to eat, that’s something.

My mother’s voice whispered it loud.

...

One day I saw them, her hand tucked

under his arm. Her head just reached his shoulder.

Years since I felt his body through my touch.

He looked down at her, and he smiled.

I ran back, tried to stay steady

but the ground quaked and the pans

crashed on the kitchen tiles.

No matter what I did , the picture

wouldn’t fade.

Her arm tucked under his.

The look.

The smile.

And not for me, one single smile,

for all those years.

I was no longer his,

he was not mine.

I was, he said, unwell.

My duties were undone,

and so was I.

I did not fulfil

his expectations from a wife,

and more. I didn’t hear.

I said I saw them walking in the street.

What patience there was left drained from his face.

He placed his knife and fork on his plate,

stood up. You’re ill, you must be mad.

You made it up. He left the house.

I know now where he went.

I cleared away, my hands shook.

The plates smashed on the tiles.

I swept the floor. However

hard I swept, the sharp shreds

stayed.

….

You’re mad, he said.

I saw you, saw you with her.

It’s Monday, wash the sheets.

I can’t, I whispered.

You’re not well. I’m going

to get you help.

I'd seen her, even smiled.

Her husband died not long ago.

Known. Greeted. Neighbour.

Her hand tucked under his arm,

looking up at him. I saw you with her.

You’re mad, he said again, and left the house.

I sobbed. And when I’d cried

I heard him in the hall.

That’s it, he said. I’ve found a place.

A place?

A place for you to go,

where they’ll take care of you

for now. He frowned hard as he spoke,

his voice tight in his throat.

Go. What could be worse than this?

I knew it well. Gardens, grand house,

though I knew what it was. I cried.

You’re mad, he said. You don’t do

what you should, what wives should do.

His big fists held his knife and fork,

white at the knuckles. Get your things.

What now?

Yes, now.

I didn’t know which things were mine.

I got some things.

…..

My arm was under his, gripped

by his elbow so it hurt.

It wasn’t kind, he feared I’d run

or cry, and shame him.

They met us at the door.

They signed me in.

The hall was big, sun shining

through huge windows.

She’s not well.

They summed me up.

They didn’t smile. He paid.

He left, he didn’t look at me.

They took me to the back,

dark, sunless, cold.

A corridor of rooms,

the doors all shut.

A hostile smell.

The sounds.

I heard the sounds.

The door they said was mine

was opened. I went in.

The door was closed.