The Girl on the Reset Button

January 1, 2011

“Good morning, Ms. Via.”

She smiled. But then she frowned and looked at me confused. “Are you like… my nurse or something?”

“Uh, yes. My name is Xavier,” I reached out my hand

“H-Hi Xavier,” she reluctantly grabbed it and shook it.

“So, uhm, if you need anything, just call me, okay?”

“Okay.”

I was about to get out of her room when she asked me something.

“Uhm, could you get me a glass of water?”

“Sure.” I smiled at her before I completely left the room.

Dear Diary,

From that one year we spent together, I had her memorized already.

Every time she wakes up, she’ll ask me who I am and of course I’ll introduce myself and we’ll do our handshake. Then, before I entirely leave her room, she’ll ask for a glass of water. When I come back, she’ll immediately finish her glass of water, giggle, and ask if there’s already breakfast because she’s already hungry. And what the hospital serves her is her favorite: pancakes. Most of the time, she eats so dirty, like the syrup is dripping from her mouth. Then, she’ll feel awkward so she’ll ask for me to leave her room.

An hour after, she’ll call me and will ask me if I could take her for a stroll in the garden patch behind the hospital. We’ll talk about her past experiences which were when she was still in first year college where she used to paint and paint and paint a lot. She enjoyed her painting classes more than her major subjects’. She really loves to paint or draw or sketch. Unfortunately, her father won’t let her take art classes since the economy is too shallow to let her take a course which would lead her to nowhere but street painter or maybe a house painter or whatever. She pursued accountancy like her father wants her to do so. Then, she’ll say that she forgot what happened next. She’ll laugh or giggle, then she’ll cry. She’ll sob and ask me where are her parents are. Sadly, even though I don’t want to tell her the truth but I have to. She has to know what has happened to her parents years ago.

I’ll stroll her to the arts center of the hospital where she spent most of her time of the day. Before 5pm, I’ll come back to pick her up, wheel her up to her balcony, and together, we’ll watch the sun set down.

At 6pm, we’ll watch her favorite show, Spongebob Squarepants. For an hour, we’ll laugh and laugh and laugh because of the stupidity of the show. Later, she’ll ask to switch the channel to HBO and check whatever’s showing. Lucky as it sound, we always hit her favorite one: V for Vendetta.

At 9pm, she’ll sleep. The next day, it’s the same routine over and over again.

Before, I was so easily fed up with whatever she’s going on with, like I’m sick of understanding her. I know she has a disease but I kept on doing and doing and doing the same things over and over again.

Then one day, I realized that I could live like this. With her. I love her so much. I care for her. I don’t know why or how I figured that out, but in a snap, it’s like a wakeup call to me that she needs me, that I need to take care of care, that I was bound to take care of her.

I know she’s like an emotional robot every day. The same emotion being poured out day by day. But I like her the way she is. I like her when she forgets things. I like her when her brain starts resetting again. It always gives me the hint that we could always start over again. And again.