Mom forgetting my name.
Every sentence went into the recorder clipped inside my jacket.
At the clinic, Dr. Leonard’s receptionist handed Abigail a clipboard.
She filled out nearly every answer herself.
Memory loss: severe.
Delusions: frequent.
Aggression: worsening.
Risk to self: high.
Risk to others: moderate.
I watched her check each box.
She never asked Mom a single question.
When Dr. Leonard called us inside, he was younger than I expected, maybe early forties, with wire-frame glasses and a calm expression.
He shook my hand.
“Captain Hayes?”
“Samuel is fine.”
Then he greeted Mom.
“Margaret?”
Mom stared at him blankly.
Abigail sighed.
“She’s having a difficult morning.”
Dr. Leonard looked toward her.
“And you are?”
“Her daughter-in-law and primary caregiver.”
The phrase sounded rehearsed.
He invited us to sit.
Abigail immediately opened her folder.
“I’ve documented everything.”
“I appreciate that.”
She handed it over.
Except she didn’t know the folder was no longer hers.
