Hello? Is Anybody Here?

We're in the kitchen, sitting at the table. I'm on my laptop, trying to transact a little business online, and he's looking at a travel brochure. It would be inaccurate to say he's reading it. He's looking at the pictures of Alaska.

He gets up suddenly, leaves the room, and starts going down the hallway.

"Hello? Is anybody here?" he asks.

"I'm right here!" I respond, bewildered. I'm still sitting at the table. How can he turn around and forget that I'm right there?

But he doesn't hear me or doesn't comprehend what I've said. He is now farther down the hallway.

"Is anybody home?! Where did everybody go?" He sounds anxious now.

"I'm in the kitchen, honey," I reassure him. "I haven't gone anywhere," I add as I get up from the table and head for the hallway. But he is already making his way back to where I am. He seems relieved to see me. I notice that he has turned on all the lights. The outside lights, the hallway lights, the lights in all the bedrooms and bathrooms.

"Would you like me to turn on the television for you?" I suggest.

"Yes, please," he says. He heads downstairs to the Man Cave, where he likes to watch television. But only if I sit with him. He doesn't watch by himself anymore as he used to do not that long ago.

I go back upstairs for a moment to get my laptop and to turn off the lights. I come back to the Man Cave. He is watching Blue Bloods. Sort of. He has fallen asleep. But it will only be for a moment. He will doze on and off until bedtime. And then he will sleep for a little while, get up and wander around, come back to bed, sleep for a little while, get up and wander around. Eventually, I will fall asleep, too. But not for long.

The Man in the Mirror

We have an antique armoire in our bedroom, and it has mirrored doors. During the day, the sunlight reflects through the window onto the mirrors and helps brighten the room. During the night on several occasions this past week, my husband has gotten out of bed suddenly to stand in front of those mirrors, staring at his reflection by the moonlight filtering through the window, not saying anything.

He seems curious about the man he sees there, leans over to look around to the side of the armoire, then looks at the front again, then the side again, then the front again. Side. Front. Side. Front. He doesn't seem agitated or threatened. I wonder what he's thinking. He still isn't saying anything. I ask him if something is wrong. He walks over to the window and looks out into the back yard, towards the neighbor's landscape lighting. Then he goes back to the armoire one more time and returns to bed.

"Who's that over there?" he asks, pointing somewhere between the armoire and the window. I don't know who that is.

In the past, he's asked me to look at the mirror in the hallway with him. He sees my reflection next to his, and I point out that we are the same two people who are in the framed photos just below it. Sometimes he accepts this explanation, and sometimes not.

This nighttime behavior of his with the armoire is new. I've read that Alzheimer's patients sometimes find it comforting to talk to their reflections. But sleep is at a premium at our place, so I'll probably have to cover the armoire mirrors at some point to avoid the distraction during sleep hours. Especially if he starts having conversations with himself.