Where Is Everyone?

For several months now, mostly in the evening but increasingly during the day as well, my husband becomes confused about whether or not others are in the house with us. I don't know if that's because he is seeing things (I hope not) or because time warps for him. Maybe there have been people at the house that day, but they have gone home.

Unfortunately, almost every evening, he is also confused about why I'm in the house.

"How did you come to be here?" he asks.

"I live here," I explain. I then explain that no, I am not his sister. I explain that this is our home, that I am his wife, that we've been married for 45 years, that we've been living here for 32 years. Together. The whole time. He takes my hand and says he is glad, then he mentions that he's been having trouble with his brain and that he does remember me. He was just having a momentary lapse.

The other evening, we were sitting in the family room. It's downstairs. It was almost time for bed, so he checked the doors to make sure they were locked. Then, for some reason, he went upstairs for a few minutes and came right back down.

"Where is everyone?"

I wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, since nobody had been at the house. It occurred to me that maybe he was wondering if the kids had gone out for the evening and hadn't returned home yet. I took a stab at it.

"The kids are all grown up and off on their own, honey."

"Oh," he said softly, looking a little lost and more than a little sad.

It's ironic, isn't it? We are so busy when the kids are home, raising them and earning a sufficient income to take care of them and providing for their needs, we hardly realize they're growing up until they leave for college. The time passes so quickly, and then they are gone.

And we're alone in our big house, just us and the dog, wondering how it could have all happened. Just the way everyone said it would.

Happy Father's Day.

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?

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.

I Like Your Boobs

Caution to the kids:  This could get graphic. You might not want to read it.

Lately, during our late-night discussion of how long we've been married, how many kids we have, what they're all up to, etc., my husband has been giving me "the look." The amorous one. He might not be too sure who I am all the time, but he thinks I'm hot. And he wants to be with me in the biblical sense. (Kids, if you're still reading, it's on you.)

As his filters are coming down, he's becoming much more direct about his feelings for me. He tells me he loves me, and he makes no bones about admiring my anatomy. He's the hormone-driven guy with the fast car your mother warned you about. (How am I doing, kids? Are you embarrassed yet?)

Well, okay, that might have been a mild exaggeration. It would be more accurate to say that this new openness in communication has been a long time coming and is kind of a pleasant surprise, even if he might not remember that it happened.

"Later" (euphemism for the sake of the kids), the other night, I put my head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me and asked me if I was happy. I told him I wish it had always been like this. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes, smiled gently, and said sweetly, in his very best "I'm trying not to appear weird" voice:

"And you are...?"

Okie dokie.

I Only Lost Him Once!

Traveling with someone who has Alzheimer's can be a challenge; but, at least at this stage, it can still be done. Each time we go somewhere, though, I'm reminded that it definitely isn't getting easier!

For instance, a cruise ship stop in Victoria, British Columbia, was only going to be for half a day. The morning half. I awoke bright and early (for being on vacation). The ship had already docked, and I wanted to make sure we would have plenty of time to go exploring on foot. We like to do that when we don't have an excursion planned. You see so much more of a place when walking, noticing little details and getting a feel for its pace and energy and people. But all of that is what I usually go into in Adventures in Paradise, so on with my story.

Photo by Chris.
See the nice breakfast I prepared?

My husband was still sleeping soundly. Rather than waking him and making him nervous by encouraging him (cough, cough) to get ready in a hurry, I left little post-it notes on every mirror, telling him I was going up to the buffet (Deck 14) and would be back with his breakfast. I even took the elevator instead of the stairs, thinking it would be quicker. But it took the same amount of time.

At the buffet, I realized it would be impossible for me to carry two full trays down to Deck 10, so I grabbed a couple of things for myself, sat with some of our evening tablemates while I wolfed down my food, and then prepared a nice breakfast tray for him.

Photo by Chris.
Panic-inducing empty bed.

Having successfully navigated the trip to our room without spilling anything, I opened the door cheerfully and said, "Good morning!" But there was nobody there. No sign of him. No note from him, either. Minor panic mode!

I dashed to the elevator banks, but so many people were going up and down by this time that it was just faster to take the stairs back up to Deck 14. I thought perhaps he would be at the buffet, looking for me. No hubster there. Not by the pool. Not by the hot tubs. Not on the other side of the buffet.

I flew back down the stairs to our room, thinking he might have come back. Nope. What to do? What to do? The gangway was open, and I could see that people were leaving the ship.

I raced down the stairs to Deck 5 -- again, the elevators were too slow with everyone coming down at once to get off the ship -- and panted over to the young man who was assigned to the exit.

"You can't leave the ship without a passport, right, since this is Canada?" I asked hopefully.

"Who told you that? Of course not! You just need your cruise card, ma'am," he responded helpfully. I envisioned my husband on the dock, looking for me. And then I envisioned him walking away, looking for me. And then I envisioned what would happen if I couldn't find him. I started to hyperventilate.

"Perhaps you can check with the front desk? They will be able to verify that he hasn't left the ship. As far as I know, he is still on board," the young man said, doing his best to be reassuring. But my head was spinning and my heart was pounding, so he might have said, "Geez, lady, why are you reacting like that to the good news that you can leave the ship without your passport?!"

For the first time in the entire cruise, there was a long line at the help desk. Not now! I stood impatiently at the end of the queue, shifting from one foot to the other as those in front of me took forever to transact their business. Why were they taking so long? I'd been looking for him for an hour at this point. Finally, it was my turn.

I almost made it all the way to the counter before exclaiming, "I can't find my husband!"

"Don't worry, ma'am. He'll turn up soon," was the calm reply, "This sort of thing happens all the time."

"You don't understand..."

As I explained the situation, the crew went into overdrive. There was confirmation that my husband hadn't left the ship.

"He should be easy to find," they reassured me, "He'll be looking lost."

"No, he won't. He'll be looking like he's looking for someone."

Moments later, a photo of my husband had been distributed to various staff members with instructions to "find this man." I was asked to return to the room to wait. Again, the elevators were too slow, so I went up the stairs. I was getting a pretty good workout, at least. And, about a half hour later, there he was, coming down the hallway with a ship's officer.

"Oh, look! This is your room, isn't it, sir?"

"Yes, I think so. Oh, there's my wife! Where have you been? I've been going up and down all the hallways, looking for you!"

I was so relieved, all I could do was wrap my arms around him and weep.

What Time Is It?

This morning, we had to stop at the store on our way to a meeting. I was keeping a close eye on the clock, as being on time was important. We left the house at ten after or so and headed to the store. It's five minutes from the house.

"What time is it?" I asked as I parked the car.

He checked his watch. "9:41," he answered.

"9:41?!" I couldn't imagine how I could have been so wrong about the time when we left the house. Now, I was in a big hurry!

"9:41. Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said, showing me his watch to emphasize the point. "The little hand is on the 9, see? And the big hand is just past the 4. It's 9:41."

Okay. I was relieved that it was only 9:21, and I thought maybe he was just teasing me, as he is wont to do. But I wasn't sure.

So, as we were leaving the store after finishing our shopping, I asked him again what time it was. He glanced at his watch.

"It's 9:82. See?" And he turned his wrist to show me the time. Yep. 9:42.

I think it might be time for a digital watch.

Precious Memories

As I've mentioned before, my husband and I have a long common history. This has been a very valuable tool in helping him to remember things, because I was there, too.

Some of the memories are fun to relive together, looking at photos and being reminded of little details that get lost in the course of daily life, anyway. He probably doesn't actually remember being in some of the exotic locations we've visited, let alone the ordinary ones. But if I show him a photo of a place we've been together, he seems to connect with it. Or maybe he just likes the picture.

My mom's been having health issues of late. Not unusual for a woman in her 90's. But whenever we discuss my mother's health, the subject of his own parents' deaths comes up. He says he doesn't remember how his mother died, so I fill in the blanks for him. She died of cancer at the age of 49. In the early 70's. And then he says he doesn't remember what happened to his father. I remind him that his father was murdered at the age of 65. In the mid-80's. He asks if the responsible parties were arrested and prosecuted. I assure him that they were. He wants to know what has happened to them. One died in prison, the other is still in prison. Knowing this seems to calm him and bring him peace.

Lately, he's even been able to shed a few tears in association with these painful memories. This is something he didn't necessarily allow himself to do before, when his memories were properly filed in cabinets that worked. His emotions are not as tightly controlled as they once were.

This evening, when I was answering his usual questions, I said, "Wow. What would it be like if I wasn't here to answer these questions for you?"

He replied, "I would be a lot less happy."

So would I.