The Gross Banana

Lately, unless there's a trauma of some kind, it seems as though one day blends into the next, and time passes by almost imperceptibly. Has it been a week since a notable event? A month? It's a blur. You think you're going to remember milestones in the disease's progress, but sometimes you don't notice they've occurred until later. If a milestone happens suddenly, you take note. But it doesn't always happen that way. Sometimes, abilities disappear slowly over time. Then they're gone, and you wonder how and when they left.
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For instance, now that my husband is basically non-verbal, I've been trying to remember when it was, exactly, that he stopped talking. A year? A year and a half? He still says a word or two now and then, but many of our hours-long visits end without his uttering a single syllable, let alone a string of them together.

2 years ago this week
First day of our last cruise together.
Yes, I was certifiable.

This morning, a post that seemed humorous at the time appeared in my "Facebook memories." It was from two years ago today, October 10, 2017. The post reads like this:

"Yuck, this banana tastes gross!" [him] "That's because it's plantain..." [me]

He had seen the "banana" on the counter, peeled it, and taken a bite. If you've ever taken a bite of raw plantain, I'm sure you'll agree that it isn't the sweetest "banana" you've ever tasted. It's more like a raw potato. But once it's made into tostones, it's delicious! I digress.

When I posted that, it was meant to demonstrate a hilarious, "fun with Alzheimer's," part of daily living with him. In retrospect, though, it's a poignant reminder that, just two years ago, he was wandering around our home, peeling his own "bananas," and able to verbalize a complaint in a complete sentence. He was feeding himself, using the restroom, dressing himself (sometimes comically, but still), going places with me, and doing things.

You may have noticed that I seem a little melancholy these days. That's because I am. My emotions, normally packaged rather neatly in a nice box with a beautiful ribbon, are causing an itchy turmoil just under the surface. And sometimes, when I sing to him or chat with him or read to him or simply think about him and of days gone by, I suddenly notice that my feelings have managed to escape and are overflowing out of my eyes and down my cheeks. I think that's okay. It has to be, because there's really nothing I can do about it.

2 years ago this week
Leaving San Francisco on our last cruise together.