A Different World By Nuzhat Shahzadi

“Why is Mr. Tim in a new world of his own?” Izara (my six year old granddaughter) asked.  She had picked up my conversation with her dad while we were driving her to school.

In Izara’s presence, we try our best not to discuss things that could confuse her or make her stressed or sad. But we give her tiny, healthy slices of reality now and then to help her understand the universe around her.

Tim and Grace are our neighbors, in their late seventies. Tim worked his entire life overseas under diplomatic cover (possibly as a CIA operative, I guess). They have been living here since he retired. He is a friendly, kind soul and befriended us right after we moved into this neighborhood. Our houses are separated by a by-lane. Often, he would cross over to our side to talk to me as I played with Izara in our front lawn. We spoke about the joys and challenges of living overseas, their three adult daughters living in three different states, and the grandkids.

Izara was two-and-a-half-year-old at the time and was fonder of Grace than Tim. Somehow, she was intimidated by Tim’s white beard. But as the months rolled on, she became friends with him and called him “Mr. Tim.”

Tim gave us valuable advice about our neighborhood, neighbors, and we chatted regularly. My son and his wife also grew fond of him. Grace is an ardent gardener like me. We found common ground and became friends. Her vast garden is ambushed with vibrant flowers from spring to late fall months.  The deer never eat her plants. They cross the road to eat mine(!!).

In the summer of 2024, as I was returning from my walk around mid-morning, I saw him collecting their mail. Our mail boxes are placed in the same row on the sidewalk at the foot of their house. I stopped by. We exchanged pleasantries.

“How is Grace doing? I haven’t seen her lately,” I inquired. Tim was silent for a while.  “You don’t know?” he asked. I was a bit surprised at the way he spoke.  “Her mom passed away!” Tim informed me. I was so sorry. I told him I would visit her soon.

I went back home. An hour later I knocked at their house with a plate of freshly made Samosas with potato stuffing. I knew Grace liked the sweets I make and share with them during every Eid.  Grace opened th e door. When I expressed my condolences, she took my hand in hers.

“My mother passed away five years ago. She was almost one hundred––led a good life . . . I wanted to tell you, Nuzhat . . . Tim isn’t well. Three years ago, he was diagnosed with dementia. He is now confused about the past and present.”

Grace updated me about Tim’s disease progression . . . medications, the medical trial he was enrolled in with the Johns Hopkins Medical School.  I returned home with a heavy heart. Life could be unfair, unpredictable. And our lives continued.

Still Tim was Tim. He could recognize me, speak playfully with Izara. He was happy to meet baby Raya, my second granddaughter, while I walked with her in my arms on our front lawn.

Last year as we were driving Izara to school suddenly a very agitated Tim crossed the road and ran after someone, shouting. I immediately called Grace to alert her.  “His condition is worsening. He has unscrewed all electric outlets in the house and can’t put them back. He is always frustrated and angry. I am exhausted.” I heard the desperation in her voice.

Tim started messing up with our mail and that of our next-door neighbor, Maria’s. She complained to me so I updated her about Tim’s condition. Most of the time he would place her mail in our mailbox while ours he would take home. Grace brought ours back and I took Maria’s mail to her house from our mailbox.

He still smiled at me, greeted me. Sometimes when Grace was away from the house on regular chores, she texted me so that I could keep an eye on Tim from afar.

Three weeks ago, while gardening, Grace had a fall and fractured her hips. Tim just stood there. Somehow, she managed to call a friend who took her to the hospital. Their daughters came to take care of the parents. Tim had an elbow infection and he was hospitalized as well.

“In a new environment he went berserk . . . at night he prowled through the hospital wards. He said foul things to our daughters, called them names. He doesn’t recognize them. He is so lost. I can’t take care of him anymore . . . we have found a place for him,” Grace told me when I called to check on her, and offered my help.

Since then, I have been collecting their mails, amazon packages, newspapers–leaving them at her front door as she requested. She is now able to move.

The daughters have left. Tim has been institutionalized. I hope he is not afraid there without Grace. They have been together for decades.

We miss him.

Tim is now lost in a new world of his own . . .

*Names changed