The Memory Machine

"Open the laptop before you do anything" is what this sticky note by nightstand says. I have no idea what this is about or how it got there but this is my handwriting on the note.

I open the laptop and watch a video of myself seemingly from years ago telling me that I have Alzheimer's, and this is my daily life now. I get a full routine of how to take care of myself, where the food is, how it gets delivered, and what days to do chores. But the most important part comes next. I tell myself in the video that my memories have been extracted and stored into the device on my dresser, and accessible at any time I need them. I know I've used this device before to view my memories, but I obviously don't know what's inside. I'm immediately interested to know more, to see more, and to understand how I got to this point in my life. So, I open it up and start the memory machine.

I do the absolute bare minimum to get up and feed myself before I visually walk through my entire life of memories. I'm a child in school, playing with my friends, and coming up to homemade dinner with my parents. I'm playing catch with my dad and spending my childhood years bonding with him and getting to know him. I'm going on road trips with my hand surfing on the air out the car window and taking in the sights of the open plains. Eventually I'm graduating from High School, going to college, and all of a sudden, I am spending all of my time with the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my life.

We don't fall into love so much as we stumble and trip our way in and out of friendship, awkward moments, and eventually plumet into an inescapable force bonding us together. I watch as I'm staring at her studying as we sit together under the College steps. I relive the moments that we're spending together eating ice cream and talking about all our classes. She's there with me as I graduate, and I watch her as she does too. I watch as she walks down the aisle, we say our vows and see her say "I do". Then suddenly, I'm watching my own face from her eyes as I say "I do" too. I notice now that there are two files for every day. One file from her, and one file from me.

It's 1:30 in the afternoon now, so eat again realize I never brushed my teeth. I'm supposed to take out the trash today, but it looks like I haven't for days now. I'll get to it soon.

I keep watching the memories now, and I can see both our lives intertwined as we live out our days of bliss and hardships, pain and pleasure, fear and fondness. We are raising our kids together and I now see everything from her point of view. The struggles of breast feeding, the sleepless nights, the endless doubts and fears. Everything I seemed to have known from my life seems to hold so much more weight now with understanding her life woven into mine. Seeing her side of all the arguments we had. Watching her when our kids went to college. Watching myself grow old with her. Understanding her deepest emotions when they told her she only had 9 months left.

It's 6:30 at night now and I've spent all day pouring over the memories, our lives, our emotions. I can't keep doing this, and I know it. I feed myself begrudgingly, going through my empty lonely house that I clearly haven't cleaned in weeks.

I lay down in bed watching what little remains I have of my wife, and the final memories I have from her in the device of her final day. She is talking to me with the doctors, saying that she's going to put all of her memories into this device for us to share and for her to live on for me. I need to tell myself this for tomorrow, I need to stop this cycle of wallowing over the life I once had. I need to write to myself, but I'm too exhausted. It's 11:30 now, and I can't keep my eyes open.

I fall asleep. I wake up.

"Open the laptop before you do anything" is what this sticky note by nightstand says. I have no idea what this is about or how it got there but this is my handwriting on the note.