Are You Coming Downstairs?

I'm starting to cook dinner. He has finished his puzzle and looks up at me.

"So, do you want to go downstairs and watch television?" he asks.

"Sure, but I have to cook dinner first," I reply.

"Oh, okay. I'll go ahead and go down there."

He leaves the room but is only gone a few seconds before re-entering.

"So, do you want to go downstairs and watch television?" he asks.

"Yes, of course. But I'm cooking dinner first."

"Oh, okay. I'll go ahead and go down there."

He leaves the room again and almost immediately returns.

"So, do you want to go downstairs and watch television?' he asks.

You're rolling your eyeballs. You think I'm joking or exaggerating. I am not. I can't even tell you how many times this exchange was repeated in a period of five minutes or less. I have pasted a smile on my face, because any second now, it will be repeated again. I haven't finished cooking yet. And I don't hear the television.

Ah, there he is! "What are you doing? Are you coming downstairs?"

Jason Bourne

Yesterday afternoon, we went to see the new film, Jason Bourne. We love Jason Bourne movies and own all the ones that have been released. Like all Jason Bourne movies, it was full of excitement and action and good-looking people with lots of muscles. And car chases. Lots of chases of all kinds. We both enjoyed the film, and he didn't even fall asleep.

When we got home, he sat down in the kitchen as I went to our room briefly. He came to find me almost immediately, because that's what he does now. He needs to know where I am. Perhaps being alone makes him anxious.

"So, are we going somewhere today?" he asked somewhat impatiently.

"We just got home from the movies," I replied.

"Okay, but I didn't see any movies!"

"The new Jason Bourne movie," I explained, hoping this information would help him retrieve the memory. Apparently, I still don't "get it" that his memories can dissipate like vapor.

"Jason who?!"

We went down to the Man Cave to watch some television, as is our habit in the evening. I sat next to him, as I always do.

He looked at me thoughtfully and said, "Where have you been lately?"

Quite often when he asks me a question, I'm not sure exactly what it is he wants to know, so I ventured, "With you..."

"Really?" he smiled, "With me?"

For a moment, all was well with the world. I smiled back and suggested, "Let's watch Bourne Identity!"

"OK!" he answered, "I love those movies!"

An Alzheimer's Moment - The Laundry

We just got back from a trip. I unpacked and separated the clothing into piles on the bedroom floor, ready for load after load of laundry. While the first load was in the washing machine, I started dinner.

A few minutes later, my husband came to the kitchen, huffing and puffing and complaining of an aching back. He had folded the piles of laundry and put the dirty clothes away in the drawers and the closet.

It hurt my heart that he had done all that work for nothing, but it was so sweet that he tried to help. If only the clothing had been clean...

I resorted everything, left the room, started writing this, and heard some noise coming from our closet. He is hanging up the clothes again. And so it goes. Sigh.

Opening the Mail

My husband likes to look through the mail, open the envelopes, read the contents out loud to me (even if I've already read them), place the contents back in the envelope, arrange the envelopes in a pleasing (to him) manner on the kitchen table and...repeat the process.

This evening, there were two pieces of mail that were of particular interest. One was a very kind invitation to an event we will unfortunately not be able to attend. The other was a bill.

"Who's that?" he asked in reference to the invitation, having taken out each piece that was in the envelope, examined it carefully, and returned it to the envelope. I tried to explain to him that it was an invitation to a friend's graduation and party, but I wasn't able to help him remember who the person was. Several times. At any rate, I placed the invitation on my bulletin board (okay, the refrigerator door) to serve as a reminder to send a card. He promptly accused me of taking the mail away before he'd even had a chance to see it. I gave the envelope back to him, and he reviewed it again, and asked me the same question again, and accused me of taking the mail away before he could see it again when I placed it back on the refrigerator door. This process was repeated several times, and then attention shifted to the invoice. Take it out. Read it. Explain it. Put it back. Take it out. Read it. Explain it. Put it back.

I was in danger of becoming impatient, so I decided to remove myself from the situation for a moment or two. I reminded myself that he really couldn't remember what he had just seen or what he had just asked or what I had just said. I took a few calming breaths.

"I wonder what this is," he said as I returned to his side. He was holding the invoice.

"It's an invoice from the insurance company for your medication," I replied.

"Oh, okay," he said as he folded the invoice and placed it carefully back in its envelope.

"Oh! What does the insurance company want, I wonder?" he asked upon seeing the envelope he was holding in his hand. Alrighty, then.

Now, I know you have a helpful suggestion for me as to how I can handle the situation differently in the future; however, what I'm trying to do is help you understand why I'm frustrated sometimes. So, stifle it. Thank you.

Why do I bother, when I know he isn't going to remember, anyway? Because I want to treat him with the same respect and kindness and decency that most of us would appreciate receiving from others. Even if he doesn't remember that, either.

There's a Guest Room

I've been down for the count with a terrible case of the flu this week, so there's been more opportunity than usual for me to notice my husband's newest idiosyncrasies. I will focus here on one that's kind of cute, if seen in the right light. Right now, it's a "brain hiccup" rather than a permanent fixture; however, the horizon looks an awful lot nearer than it once did.

We were working on a jigsaw puzzle (a 100-piece one) together, and he confused me with one of his sisters. He realized he'd made a mistake, so he called me by the other sister's name. So I looked at him and asked him if he knew who I was. He said he'd been a little confused, but he knew who I was, and he said my name.

Then he said, "There are a couple of guest rooms, if you want to spend the night."

I said, "What?!"

Sometimes, it's hard to think before reacting. I took a breath and said, "Of course I'm going to spend the night. I live here."

On the plus side, he seemed delighted that I was staying. And then he seemed relieved to know that, in fact, we are married (to each other). I was happy to know that, should I have been a stranger, he would not have slept with me. Necessarily.

He then started his usual evening questioning. When did we meet? How old am I? How old are you? How long have we been married? Were you with me when I lived in [insert name of place]? What do you think of me? And so on. He is trying to fit the puzzle pieces of his memory together, and I find it interesting that his memory is stuck in the places where it is stuck.

I've noticed lately that he is beginning to have trouble expressing himself and relies on me to know and understand what he's trying to say, because he's lost the rest of the thought before having a chance to say it. It's a sad thing.

Unloading the Groceries

We went to Costco today, and included in our purchase was a set of three plastic bins for storage, nested together. I filled the top one with towels and other light items before placing it in the back seat of the car. Other items were placed in the trunk, loose, because they hadn't been boxed. When we got home, I removed the bins from the vehicle first. Here's our conversation:

Me:  "I'm going to take this inside, unload it, and bring it back out so we can load up the other stuff."

Him:  "What other stuff?"

Me:  "The stuff that's in the trunk."

Him:  "Oh."

Me:  "I'll be right back."

Him:  "Why?"

Me:  "So we can unload the rest of the stuff."

I take the containers inside, unload them, and go right back outside. He is struggling up the drive with a couple of boxed items.

Him:  "I think I dropped a box."

He sees that I am carrying the plastic bins.

Him:  "What are you doing with those?"

Me:  "I'm going to fill them back up."

Him:  "I dropped a box."

He takes his armload into the house. I see the box with the milk cartons on the ground. The box is split open, but nothing is spilling out. I go ahead and fill up the plastic bin with the other purchases. He comes back outside. This is both surprising and pleasing, as he normally would have forgotten that we're in the middle of doing something.

Him:  "Is that all?"

Me:  "Yes, except for the box you dropped." (I say it this way, thinking he will immediately know where to look.)

Him:  "What box? I didn't drop anything." (He is not being defensive. He really doesn't remember dropping it, even though it just happened, and he just told me about it.)

Me:  "It's okay. Nothing is spilling. It's right over there."

He starts to lift the box with one hand. I remind him that it's broken and needs to be picked up with both hands so the cartons don't slip out. He is insulted that I would think he needs to be reminded of this. Sigh.

A Visit with the Neurologist

At the end of July, we had our regular visit with our neurologist. She is fabulous, very interested in my husband's case, and is on staff at UC Davis Medical School. Her specialty is Alzheimer's, I may have mentioned already. I appreciate her and trust her.

This appointment was weird, though. The questions she was asking me are, I'm sure, routine, but I wasn't comfortable answering them right in front of my husband. I did the best I could, but it just wasn't possible to be really direct or entirely honest or even to think of specific examples of incidents or behavior with him sitting right there!

He was his usual joking and funny self and seemed to be trying to make the best of the situation, but he was visibly upset and defensive about the line of questioning. Who could blame him? What must it be like to be confused, to know you don't remember things, to be asked questions about things other people think you should remember, but you don't? It must be so frustrating. It must feel as though a trap is being set for you, and you must be careful to step around it.

Doctor:  "Have you done anything out of the ordinary lately?"
Me:  "We went to a couple of concerts. Do you remember those?"
Him:  "What concerts?"
Me:  "There were two. One was on your birthday, and one was with your brother. The James Taylor one and the Led Zeppelin one?"

Oh, yes! And his face lit up as he talked about how good the concerts were and how much fun we had. Either he was remembering them very well, or else he was pulling in other memories, or else he was doing a very good job of covering up. And you know what? It's hard to tell.

Doctor:  "I haven't seen you for a while. Didn't you take a cruise last year?"
Him:  "A cruise?"
Me:  "Remember our cruise last year to the Caribbean?"
Him:  "Who did we go with?"
Me:  "It was my class reunion."
Him:  "Oh, ya. I was stationed in Puerto Rico when I was in the Navy, you know."

And, he had fallen through the cracks. An appointment should have been scheduled several months before, but the information had apparently not been entered into the computer properly. The reminder postcard was not sent out; the appointment was not made. It's the first time that's happened, so I plan to start a spreadsheet for appointments. While I'm at it, I'll start a spreadsheet for medications. Might as well, right?

Have I Eaten Yet?

I think I have figured out why my husband is gaining weight, seemingly for no apparent reason.

Thursday morning:

This morning, he had a large helping of cold cereal and a small bowl of strawberries for breakfast. That was about two hours ago, at the usual time. Since then, because I have been in the kitchen on my computer, I have spotted him going to the cupboard to get a bowl with cereal box in hand. Twice so far.

"Honey, why are you getting a bowl?"
"I want some breakfast."
"You already had breakfast."
"Oh."

And the bowl goes back into the cupboard. Until the next time.

Is it that he's actually hungry? Is it that he doesn't remember having eaten already?

Thursday evening:

It was a friend's birthday, so we all met up at a sidewalk restaurant to enjoy the beautiful summer evening and grab some eats. It was a very informal affair, and people were joining the group intermittently, causing the food orders to arrive helter skelter. Some before ours, some with ours, some after ours.

We'd already eaten a light meal, so I ordered a carne asada quesadilla to share. It was smothered in sour cream and delicious guacamole. It was fabulous. There were chips and salsa on the table, too. Anyway, we emptied our plate, and rightly so!

More food arrived at the table for those who had ordered after us. My husband seemed distressed, so I asked him what was the matter. He was upset because he'd been patiently waiting for his food, and when was it going to arrive? I reminded him that he'd already eaten, pointing out the empty plate. But he wasn't having it. Thankfully, someone else had an extra burrito. That seemed to make everything okay.

Sunday noon:

A group of us went out for Chinese food. Unfortunately, most of the orders looked pretty much alike, which was kind of confusing for all of us, but especially my husband. How are you supposed to know whether or not you've already tried a dish? So, that part was understandable. But making sarcastic remarks because no one told you there was rice available when you, in fact, have already just eaten a large helping of rice? That's somewhat less understandable.

So, I think I've answered my own question. When he fills up his plate again at a potluck, it just might be because he doesn't remember having eaten the first plateful rather than because he's still hungry.

What am I supposed to do? He's a grown man. If he wants something to eat, he should be able to have something to eat. Sometimes, I feel like the food police, and I don't like that. I don't like it at all.