You Aren't Gail...

Last year, we were driving down I-5 around sunset, which can be a confusing time of day for Alzheimer's patients. Here's what transpired, as written a year ago:

We were chatting pleasantly about the weekend we had just spent with my mom, who was ailing at the time. We all thought she would bounce back from this one, too (but she didn't).

He suddenly became very quiet and pensive. He looked at me strangely, shyly. "You aren't Gail," he ventured. "You aren't Joanne..."

"No, I'm not," I replied, "Those are your sisters, honey. I'm your wife. We've been married for 45 years." I figured this juicy tidbit of information would serve two purposes:  One, to help him recognize this old lady as the sweet young thing he used to know; and, two, to help him realize how much time has passed.

"Oh, that's right. I was confused there for a second."

"What's my name?" I asked calmly.

"Christiane," he replied.

"That's correct," I smiled.

"Something's going on with my brain. Is that why you won't let me drive?" I was taken aback by this question.

"It isn't that I won't let you drive," I explained, "It's that I think it isn't a very good idea. Just now, you weren't too sure who I was."

"True."

"So do you think it's a good idea for you to drive?" I asked.

"No," he said sadly. And it is sad. Very sad. And he won't remember having had this discussion, and we'll have it again tomorrow. And the next day. And again. And again...

And here we are, a year and a half later. The driving doesn't come up as often, thankfully. But his pickup truck sits in the driveway, collecting dust. We should probably sell it, since it hasn't gone anywhere in such a long time. But that just seems so final. I don't have the heart for it.

There She Is

"There she is," he exclaims as he comes around the corner from the family room to the laundry room with the dog, "Gail...Joanne...Caity...I mean, Heather!"

He looks at me earnestly. He knows none of those names is correct, but he isn't sure why. I am folding laundry, and he looks confused but relieved to have found me. I just told him a minute ago that I was going to check on the laundry.

"Who am I?" I ask him, gazing at him intently from across the room.

"Gail," he says. Gail is one of his sisters. It has happened before that he has called me by his sister's name and maybe even confused me with her.

"Do I look like Gail?" I ask.

"Yes. No. I don't know." Clearly, there is something about me that reminds him of her, which is both creepily weird and oddly logical. I take a breath.

"I'm Chris. I'm your wife. We live here together. This is our house. Gail is your sister." I say these things as calmly and normally as possible while freaking out internally.

"Yes, I know that. You're Chris. That's what I said." Alrighty, then. He says he is going to call me Gail from now on, because he can't remember Chris. I'm not sure what to say about that. It is odd, though, don't you think?