“I’d rather have dementia praecox,” thought the crone,
Savoring the Latin nomenclature of the malady,
So much more melodious than that diagnosis with the German name
That was depriving her love of his senses
And was beginning to cloud her awareness, slowly, but rapaciously.
“Dementia praecox affects the young,”
She coddled herself.
It did not define you as a sexagenarian or worse
Joining those traitorous joints, back and breasts
That accused her of reckless aging.
She could not and would not succumb
To that vulgar German disease
While her husband needed her memory.
In fact, while he needed her common sense
As he forgot all his appointments,
Refused all tests and pills,
Carried the keys to a car he should not drive
And made proclamations he once knew not to voice.
“Old wives don’t have a choice,” she thought.
She struggled to remember the words that she was hearing
And made him believe he was safe in her care.
If she’d had dementia praecox, she’d be consigned to his care.
But that just didn’t happen.