Bittersweet Sunday

Bittersweet Sunday by Edil Rentas Casiano

We knocked on the door after a somewhat long 2 hour drive from Ponce. We were looking forward to this visit albeit a little apprehensive. We arrived to visit Ana, a dear friend of over thirty five years, who at her sixty-five years of age, has been afflicted with Alzheimer’s for the last eight.  Her daughter opened the door, eyes bright with happiness as my wife and I entered. We embraced in tight greeting hugs, with the usual Puertorican warmth. 

Inside, there she was. Same face, a little aged. Same smile—like she’d never left. Like the woman with whom we used to share so many conversations, who taught our kids to swim, who loved my wife like she was family. But the eyes… missing the spark that made Ana, Ana.

We greeted her, hugged her, but she remained still, smiling, but no reaction, no affection. My wife said — soy Lucy (I’m Lucy), followed by my name. No response or change in the smile. We tried reminiscing of the old days: the Coast Guard days, the late-night prayer calls with my wife to see if something would spark a memory. Nothing. Not a blink. Just that smile—warm, gentle, automatic, but absent of any recognition or emotion. 

Even then, I could hear her voice and her laughter, her calling our names, in my mind.  My memories of past times were still there, at the reach of an instant though. But hers, hers have lost their way of being recalled. 

We spoke for a couple hours with her daughter. We reminisced about the times shared in Miami, Aguadilla, Ramey, about her daughter’s wedding at the Old Ramey Lighthouse. She just looked, smiled, and moved her lips mostly without sound. 

Her daughter shared the difficulty understanding and acceptance of her condition. She even felt angry in the beginning? Questioned why? Why did this happen? Why my mother?

Lucy prayed with Ana. Broke bread. Spoke about the Lord’s Supper, and Ana—out of nowhere—said, “Yo sé.” I know. Just that. In Spanish. Clear. Like she’d understood the moment, the meaning, the significance. Like the faith she’d carried since forever had punched through the fog. We were perplexed. For a second, it was her. Then she disappeared once again.

We bid them farewell, hugged, and expressed our love for them. Even when she gave no hint of recognition, she grabbed Lucy’s hands, pulled them with force towards her, and mumbled something about leaving. She held Lucy’s hands very tight, like she understood that moment, and didn’t want it to end. We hugged her. Kissed her forehead. Told her “we love you.” She maintained the same vacant smile. No words. We walked out without looking back. There are moments in life that are better remembered as you just left them,  without looking back. 

The drive home was quiet. I kept thinking—how do you lose someone who’s still breathing? How do you grieve a friend who’s right there, but not? Her body was smiling. Her soul wasn’t. And that’s what broke me: the shell stayed, but the woman we knew—the one who used to light up when we walked in—slipped away.

She’s not gone physically, but her memory is. And every time I close my eyes, I see that smile. Still perfect. Still hers. But empty of feelings.

I don’t know what happens inside . Memories don’t vanish; they just lose their map. She can’t find them anymore. Can’t find the past. Can’t find herself. But somewhere—maybe in the rhythm of prayer, maybe in the taste of the bread and wine, there’s still a spark. “Yo sé.” She recognized the moment’s significance.  Her connection with her Lord. 

We carry her memories now. All the stories. All the laughs. All the conversations we shared. My wife carries them too. Her daughter and sons do too.  Even her husband whose busy military life hardened his feelings and life, has been softened by the whole experience, he is a changed person, softer, loving, caring.

We left with a

M new understanding of what this condition means for the thousands of families that have lost their loved one’s, while still being physically present. Our hearts go out to them. 

Regarding her memories, we’ll keep telling them. Not because Ana hears them. But because we do. Because she matters. Because even if hers can’t find their way out, we can still bring them to light. 

So while she continuously smiled, we held back our tears. And somewhere, maybe—just maybe—she understood. 

And at that moment that’s all we had. The bittersweet feeling of the happiness of being able to see her, with the sadness of knowing that she was not there. And that was enough.