“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.

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