So much better than gangsters

She stopped me on the way to bed and, with a look of concern on her face, said, "I've lost track of who I am. It seems like there's a family here, and I think I used to be a part of it. I want to be a part of it." I said you are, you're the matriarch. A look of pure delight spread across her face. "I am?" she said. Yes. This is our house, and we're the grandparents. She hugged me and said, "Oh, that makes me so happy."

I went back to the computer to sign off for the night and she stopped by again to say, "Tell me again, we're the grandparents?" So I told her again. "Oh, grandparents ... that's so much better than ... gangsters." You thought we were gangsters? "Well," she said, "when things get all ... funny ... it looks like gangsters to me." No, we're not gangsters. Just grandparents. She went to bed happy.

Just a guy

Tonight she calls me to her side and confides: "You know I have Alzheimer's..." As if I were just a guy who was carrying in the groceries. I said I knew. She asked how long I had known. I said I was the first to know, before the doctors.

At bed time she asks if she can say something and I say okay. "I love this house," she says. "I loved it from the first time I saw it, and I'm happy to share it with you. I don't know how that would work, but I'll share it with you. You wouldn't take it away from me, would you?" As if I not only carried the groceries in, but also had designs on spending the night.

Amazing...

Yesterday I took her with me to a meeting, and if you didn't know our story, you wouldn't have guessed that she had any health issues. Then, on the way home in the car, she looked at me and said, "Are we married?" I said we were. "Since when?" she asked. "Since 30 years ago. January 20th was our 30th anniversary." That was the most amazing thing she had heard in a long time.

Not out of the blue

Today is typical of how it's been for the past week or so.

Walking back from taking Adam to school, she said "Maybe I should get a job. I feel like I'm just not doing anything." We've been through this before, and I say it just wouldn't work for her to get a job. She started crying and cried off and on until lunchtime. Going out for lunch seemed to cheer her up, but after a few bites she started staring into the middle distance, and tears welled up and soon she was wiping them off her cheeks with her napkin.

Finally she spoke.

I just don't know who I am anymore. (Pause) I don't know ... who I am. I don't understand. What's wrong with me? How did it happen? What can I do? Did this just come out of the blue?

And so I began the tale I've told so many times.

No, it didn't come out of the blue. It started about five years ago, with memory problems. Then, you suddenly couldn't manage the checking account. Then you started getting lost in the car. And one day you went grocery shopping, and with $300 worth of groceries in the cart at the check-out counter, you couldn't figure out how to pay for it. So they pushed your cart to the side and you came home quite upset. Little by little, one step at a time, it's been coming. Not out of the blue.

Walking home from lunch she asked, "How long have you known?"

Since last november, officially, when we got the diagnosis. You were there, so you've known too. But I pretty much knew for a year before that. You used to forget though, which allowed you to be worry-free about it. Lately, you haven't been forgetting. You seem to know most of the time, and that's been hard on you.

"Can I stay at home?" she asked. "Yes you can."

Worse, now

It's Saturday morning and I was taking the opportunity to catch up on sleep. At about 7 o'clock I felt May's hand on my chest. She leaned close and said, "I'm confused." I gave up sleep and asked what she was confused about.

"You're my husband, right?"

"Is that what you're confused about?

"I don't know..."

"You know I'm the guy who takes care of you but you just want to be sure I'm your husband?

"I think so."

"Yes, I'm your husband."

(Long pause, during which I nearly go back to sleep)

"But you're my husband, right?

"Yes, that's right."

(Another long pause, in which I think I do drift into a light sleep)

"You're Bill, right?

"Are you really asking that?"

"I don't know...but...you're Bill, right?"

"Yes, I'm your husband, I'm the guy who takes care of you, and I'm Bill."

(Pause)

"Who's that woman that Bill has to take someone to see?"

"I'm Bill, and there is no woman that I have to take anyone to see."

"It's just so confusing with all these people coming and going."

"There's no one here but you, me and Adam. Ted's on a trip."

"Why does Ted live here?"

"Because he's Adam's dad and he takes care of Adam so I can take care of you."

"I want you to stay with me."

"You stay with me. I take care of you. This is our house."

"I love this house."

On the other hand

Every day, there are comments like this:

"Doesn't this taste great?"

"Look at that sky!"

"I would love to see the inside of that house."

"Isn't it great to be back in the city?"

"Thank you so much for letting me come with you."

"He's such a sweet boy."

"Don't the jades look great out there?"

"It's almost balmy out here!" (It isn't, not even close.)

"Look--you can see the clock!"

"I love that song."

It's like everything is for the first time.

How does this house work?

I was at the computer at 6 o'clock this morning when May appeared at my side and said, "I need someone to explain to me how the house works." I walked her back to the bed and asked her to explain what she meant, and then there was this:

"What do you mean, how the house works?"

"Well, there are all these people, coming and going. And I just don't know, I don't know how it works..."

"Okay, let's count the people. There's you and me and Adam. Adam's been with us since we bought this house. And then there's Ted, who's been living here since Thanksgiving. That's four people. Ted comes and goes. The rest of us don't."

"Where did this house come from? How did we get here?"

"This is our house. We own it. You like it, you like this house."

"I love this house."

"Yes you do. You tell me that all the time. You love this house."

"But, we own it? It's ours?"

"Yes, we own it."

"When did we get this house?"

"We moved in here in December, 2005 -- so, four-and-a-half years ago."

"And we own it?"

"Yes, we own it."

"Okay, okay."