I remember my grandchildren. I do. Little Timmy came first and just started kindergarten this year.
He had a large gap in his front teeth and loved stripes so much - his favorite animals were zebras and tigers.
Emma, my daughter's daughter, preferred rolling around but had learned to walk. She still had a ton of her baby fat and her laugh, oh... Such a bundle of joy.
But they're missing, and my children tell me they never existed.
I've stopped yelling at them and the doctors since they're too strong for me and give me something that leaves me blacking out for at least a few hours.
I refuse to quietly accept what's going on, and while they all keep trying to get me to understand my dementia I *swear* something else is going on.
Last month I got a new doctor, who told me he's always been my doctor. He's young, well-trimmed and a little too perky for my liking. No one's ever really that happy, not all the time.
He gave me square blue pills insisting I've been on them for years, but I know my pills are white and oblong.
There's not a lot I can do about it in my condition, and all the other patients I've spoken to actually *do* have Alzheimer's or something worse.
A week ago my son stopped visiting. My daughter told me she's an only child, that she's always been an only child.
I asked her for photo albums to remember, using that generic boring old-person voice I can't stand.
And every photo I've looked at, even the ones that used to be of only my son's family, are missing all the people I still remember.
I've asked why our family photo albums has pictures of landscapes, beaches, and houses with no people in it. But it's like talking to a wall spray painted with ignorance in the shape of a smile.
No definitive answers, no explanations, and no matter the questions or evidence they keep telling me *I'm* the one with memory issues.
Yesterday the doctor told me I never even had children at all. Utter bullshit, because my daughter left her purse in the room and I still have the albums.
He says a nurse probably left her things here, and that a local volunteer brought the photos from my home.
If he's covering something up I can't tell, and at this point there's no one left to help me investigate.
They keep telling me to try and understand. To accept that my mind is failing. But it's not, because I remember everything clear as day. My round white pills. Little Tommy's smile. My daughters.
And yet, even my reflection is missing today.