April 18, 2025 — Good Friday
Today is one of those days that stay tattooed. It was around eleven in the morning. Isabella and I were still in that limbo between the sheets and reality when María Elena burst into the room. She came in confused, agitated, her face undone. “I don’t know what happened… I don’t know…” she said, her voice breaking.
My first reaction was instinctive: ground her. I asked her to sit and began asking soft questions, as if anchoring her mind little by little. —Do you know who I am? —Yes. You’re my daughter’s husband. —And who is your daughter? —Her. —And how many grandchildren do you have? —Two… —Three —I reminded her—: Miguel, Eduardo, and Berlín.
And then something in her gaze settled. —Eduardo… I already see him grown. And Miguel is the oldest, right? But since he’s bigger now, I don’t see him anymore. And Berlín… he’s the littlest.
Naming them brought her back. As if their names were lighthouses in the fog.
I explained once more —perhaps for the hundredth time— about her illness. That her memory was going to play these tricks on her, that we were here to walk with her. I reminded her why she lived with us, why we are together in this stage.
Meanwhile, Isabella came close with tenderness and told her that maybe what she felt was missing her father. Not to worry, that he would come soon. It isn’t entirely true, but in that moment the truth can be cruel; calm, instead, is an act of love.
My father-in-law, still alive, remains in Tabasco. He fears the cold, and New York is not kind in April. She, confused, had told us she had only just realized that “her people were no longer there.” Only he remains for her.
After a while, something inside María Elena seemed to click into place. She said: —I no longer live in a big house. —No —I answered—. You live here. And before that you lived in an apartment in Villahermosa. That also seemed to settle her.
Then, like a scene from a film that can’t decide between drama and tenderness, Isabella hugged her and guided her toward the kitchen. “What’s happening,” she told her, “is that you haven’t had breakfast and you don’t know how to be without my dad. Let’s help you.” It was a deeply beautiful moment. She was broken, asking why this had happened to her, why this illness.
Isabella and I have a theory —perhaps a form of consolation—: sometimes Alzheimer’s chooses people who stopped being fully themselves, who lived for others until they disappeared. María Elena was a submissive wife, shaped in the image of whatever my father-in-law decided. Maybe, over time, that dissolved her identity.
And here we are. A Friday without school, without work, without plans. Only the present. María Elena had a strong episode, but also a momentary return. Isabella had a day with new strength. And I… I am tired, yes, but I keep going.
With a fair amount of humor, with tenderness, with a mix of resignation and hope, we will keep leaping every obstacle.
—Pablo Eduardo