The Treasured Chest

She had forgotten how to be human. She had forgotten how to be around normal people. She watched them making small talk with each other in the hallways, and she felt alien. Everyone looked at her the same way, as if they were trying to figure out how she had ended up like that. She tried to smile; she thought she was, but the look on their faces proved her attempts were failures. She wondered when she had gotten this way. When did she forget how to be a person?

Three years had passed since the day she was admitted. They told her she had lost her mind and expected her to comprehend. How did they put it? “Altered mental state.” Yes, that’s what she wrote in her notes. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. So, if anything sounded important, she wrote it down.

Every day was a constant sifting of what was real and what she remembered as being real. She searched for some semblance of familiarity anywhere she could find it. The aide took on the face of her favorite professor in nursing school. She was certain the patient in the next bed looked just like her grandmother. And there was that one male nurse who reminded her so much of her first love.

Her long-term memory was still intact. Her short-term memory halted mid-sentence, leaving her to wonder what she was just talking about or if she was talking at all. Every night she would dream about the children. She never had any of her own, but she cared for those little ones as though they were her own. They were the discarded and forgotten ones who were never expected to make it past their six-month or three-year lifespan prognosis. But for nearly forty years, they did. Now she was the one needing care in that God-forsaken place.

She remembered the place well, unfortunately. It was one of those memories from long ago that she wished she could forget. The rancid smell of urine-stained sheets. The over-worked, underpaid nurses speaking in exaggerated tones as if every patient were deaf. It was a state-run nursing home disguised as a rehab facility. There was nothing rehabilitative going on there. She remembered the dull cracking sound her back made when, as a young nursing student, she was nearly crushed by a huge lifeless woman. She and the other nurse both counted to three. She lifted, but the other nurse did not. Her spine felt like it had been replaced by a hot poker. She left that place and swore she’d never go back. But here she was.

The tumors had invaded her brain without her knowledge or permission and robbed her of the life she once had. Prednisone is both an angel and a demon. The massive doses reduced the swelling on the brain, but caused all kinds of complications and swelling everywhere else. Now she was as heavy as the woman who cracked her back. No one would believe people used to mistake her for Diana Ross.

“Dinner time, Rose! How are you doing today?”

The sound of his voice made her ears ring. “Oh, hello, Sam. I’ve had better days, but I won’t complain. I’m still here.” She eyed the cellophane-wrapped food on the tray. “Just put it down over there for me, please. I’ll try and eat it later.” She shifted the small black notebook to make room on the overbed table. “Thanks, Sam. I hope you washed your hands.”

Sam’s laughter was muffled by his mask. “Yes, Rose. I always wash my hands.”

“Thank God! It’s very important. I used to be a nurse, you know.”

He turned and shuffled back out of the room, “Yes. I know, Rose. Have a good night.”

She groaned as she turned herself in the bed and stared at the glossy magazine photos she had taped to the wall. At least she had something beautiful to look at. She never even knew when the night nurse came in with the ice chips.

***

The sound of the phone jarred me out of a sound sleep. “Uh, hello.”

“Hello. May I speak to Angela Henry.”

“Speaking.”

“Ah, Ms. Henry, this is Dr. Parvis from Derby General Hospital —” The pause on the other end made my stomach tighten. “I’m sorry, but your Aunt Rose didn’t make it. She was having a tough time breathing, even with the ventilator. And because she was immune-compromised ...” His voice trailed off. “Well, her heart just gave out. We did everything we could. I’m so sorry.”

I knew I hung up the phone, but I had no recollection of doing it.

***

The conversations with Jennifer from the funeral home over the next few days were a blur.

“I just wanted to let you know that all the paperwork was able to be processed, and the cremation was able to take place late this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Jennifer. I appreciate that.”

“I do have a picture of your aunt, and I also have the jewelry that she was wearing. I’ll put them with the rest of her belongings.”

“Thank you. My husband will be there tomorrow mid to late afternoon to collect her personal items.”

***

The dull green bag from the funeral home sat on the shelf in the den for two months before I finally got the nerve to look inside. It looked like it was made from some recycled material. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was a little startled by the weight when I lifted it. I put the box with the ashes in a Tiffany Blue chest with an oriental clasp, right next to an old black and white photo of my Aunt Rose as a little girl.

When I was little, one of my favorite things to do was hold her hand. It was always so soft. In the end, I never got the chance to hold her hand again. She never got to hear my “I love you” one more time. She was always calmer when I talked to her. “You’re the best!” she would always say. We never got to say goodbye.

My husband made all the necessary calls and took a couple of trips to settle Aunt Rose’s estate. All that was left of her existence was a six-pound box filled with ashes, a check from the insurance company for $20,000, and a small black notebook with all the important things she thought she should remember.