The Alzheimers Unit was a locked ward, beautifully appointed in the
public areas leading up to it but a little less so once you punched in the code
and passed through the double doors. The
birthday party was held in the game room with cupcakes and presents but no
amount of either
could make up for the locked doors and the vacant looks of the patients. Live music – mostly old country western – helped with some of the less impaired guests clapping and
singing along but no matter what you chose to see or hear, we were still celebrating the 80th birthday of a
man whose mind came and went like a random breeze. His speech was unclear, his body tremored,
what teeth he had left were jagged and blackened. Even so, he managed to down two chocolate
cupcakes and a tiny medicine cup of lemonade and though it took some time and patience, I did manage to be pointing my camera
directly at him when he happened to give his daughter a crooked grin.
The painful hour passed and the party ended but as I was leaving, I noticed the
old couple in the corner. It was
impossible to tell if one or both were residents but you couldn’t miss that they were holding hands – and, I thought, although it could have just been my imagination – they’d been doing
so for a lifetime. I approached them and smiled but got no sign of being
noticed so as discreetly as I could, I knelt, focused, and clicked the shutter.
They didn’t seem to mind.
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