Who are you? 

John flopped into his armchair with an involuntary groan. Across the now dusted, vacuumed and tidied lounge room, Flo slept peacefully in her favourite chair. Her once luxurious chestnut curls had diminished to sparse white fluff – a poignantly accurate representation of the current state of her once vibrant brain. 

A trickle of saliva snaked from the corner of her mouth and dripped onto her brightly coloured blouse. She might not remember her husband of fifty-three years, but she remembered her love for bright colours. The comfortable elasticised track pants and cotton blouses wouldn’t meet her former dress standards, but they were easy to wash and get on and off.  

His mind wandered, as it often did, to how their formerly active world had become reduced to this. A GP with a busy practice, he’d spent far more time with his patients than his wife. The bitterness of childlessness ate at Flo. They’d drifted apart, each occupied with their own concerns. He simply worked longer hours, blithely refusing to accept the advice he gave his patients about self-care and balance.  

Until the day when everything changed.  

Things that he’d always enjoyed were now an effort. Worse still, he’d been struggling to care about the patients he saw each day. He found himself increasingly irritated by them. Why didn’t they at least try to improve their diets, restrict their alcohol intake, or do some exercise? His own poor diet, lack of exercise and alcohol consumption he conveniently ignored. On the day his world crashed, he’d been reeling from the news of Flo’s dementia diagnosis and he’d made a potentially fatal prescription error. Thank God he’d caught it in time, but fear of what could have happened paralysed him. 

He couldn’t work.  

He couldn’t sleep. 

He couldn’t think. 

Burnout.  

Within weeks he’d sold his share of the practice to his partners and retired, ostensibly to care for Flo. 

Now she woke and looked at him with the blank expression he knew too well. 

“Who are you?” 

“I’m your husband, John,” he replied for possibly the hundredth time. 

“No, he’s always busy. You’re very kind.” She smiled at him. “Will you marry me?” 

His heart broke. All she remembered about him was his busyness. 

“I’m already married, Flo.” 

Her lip quivered and tears rolled down her face.  

“Would you like to see my wife?” 

She nodded, her eyes still leaking tears. He took her hands in his and helped her stand. Together they walked into the bedroom. He positioned Flo in front of the full length mirror.  

“This is my wife.” 

Flo peered at her reflection, a smile stealing across her face. 

“Am I your wife?” Her question was barely audible. 

“Yes, you’re my wife, and I love you.” For the first time in years John realised it was true. He loved her despite dementia. The past was gone, the future unknown. Their world had shrunk to a small but surprisingly peaceful window of time – now.  

Flo blinked. “Who are you?”