"How did you find me?"

 

I'm doing my homework in front of the television -- an ancient practice going back to the Dick Van Dyke Show days.  I'm watching The Falcon's Brother, a 1942 episode of a movie series starring George Sanders with the wonderful radio actor Tom Conway as his brother.  Will used to say that watching black and white movies was soothing and healing.  I find it so.  I love how full of wartime rules and regulations it is.  There is a scene in a fashion house where the woman describing the dresses kept reminding the ladies (and detective) in the room that each of the dresses followed government wartime regulations.

A long preface to a short report of a conversation we had last night.

I'd finished an episode of Murder She Wrote, did my evening tasks, then moved the little dog off my pillow and got into bed.  The motion activated lights went off.  I started settling in with an episode of Suspense in an earbud, when Will rolled over toward me, put a hand on me and asked, tentatively, "Who are you?" 

"I'm your wife.  I love you.  We all love you, the dogs and I."

There was a pause.  I put my earbud back in.  A short time later he said, "How did you find me"

I took my earbud out again.  "How did I find you where?"

"I don't know."

Long pause in the dark.

"How did you find me?"

"Where are you now?

"I don't know."

Long pause in the dark.  Little dog keeps trying to settle.  Under my hand or at my feet?

"How did you find me?"

"Do you feel anxious?"

"No.  How did you find me?"

We lie in the dark, together, touching.  I am full of chocolate and ThC, though not terribly high.  I have been building my levels of both tolerance and acceptance since he forgot who I was in February.  Since then, he'd remembered me for most of the past few months.  So I feel only moderately sad and not surprised.  And I'm curious about why he thinks I "found him."

"Were you lost?" I ask.

"I don't know."

Long pause in the dark.

"How did you find me?"

"I will always find you.  I will always find you and always love you.  You are safe.  I hope you have a good sleep.  Goodnight, Sweetie."

And I'm asleep before I hear the surprise ending of Suspense.

*********************

Surprise ending:  This morning I asked him if he knew who I was and he said, "Kakie!" rather happily.  And then he also named off Winston and Birdy.  So.  How does his brain work?  

Well, here's a picture of a brain with vascular dementia and a story attached.

But day to day, I don't know where we're at...it's all in the moment.

New Symptom

 This morning when I got home from my office, I found him awake and putting his legs into his shirt sleeves.  

This afternoon he went on a start and stop spiel about little dogs and don't they.  Sigh.

Reassessment

 Well, it looks like Will is going to pass his hospice "sell by" date.  The assessment nurse is coming to the house next week or the week after.  I assume they won't kick us off the program, though he hasn't declined as much as we assumed he would (frankly, a tough winter would probably have killed him but this one wasn't tough).  By the way, if you know any social workers, the hospice is looking for one and recently raised the pay.

He spend most days sleeping.  He eats very little, mostly cookies and candy, although I do put real food in front of him at dinner and he eats his cereal and banana in the morning while he looks at the newspaper (and I do mean "looks").  That's typical, however, for the dying as sweet is the last taste to disappear (just as I imagine it's the first taste we experience).

  He's pretty incontinent now and I have a steady turnaround for his long pants (jeans, mostly, though I'm trying to get him to wear pajama pants more often).  God bless the creators of Nature' Miracle.  I found out about it maaaany years ago when I was visiting with friends in Boston and their cat pissed all over my semi-closed cloth suitcase.

He's largely nonverbal and drifty.  For example, a couple of days ago he started "fake typing" - holding his hands in front of him and moving them as though on a keyboard.  I asked, "Are you writing a novel?"  He nodded.  I asked him, what's your novel about.  I saw his eyes focus, as though he were starting to think, and then they relaxed and he looked at the other side of the room and I knew that he'd lost the thread or even the need to respond.

He was getting angry with me again yesterday when I asked if he needed food or how he was feeling.  When he does that, I just back off because his pout will be gone in a few minutes.  If I approach him like a nurse or parent, he's annoyed.  If I approach him as his friend and equal, smiling and warm, all usually goes well.

And then there are the days like Monday when he's up in one of the wingbacks all day, looking out the front window.

Fortunately, he isn't unhappy when he doesn't remember things, like the names of his siblings or what he did in school or as a child.  He just smiles and says, "I don't remember."  Of course, I rarely ask him if he remembers anything because, well, that's just not done.  

Question

@JaredMurray

How can I watch a movie without him.

How can I watch a movie without him.

How can I watch a movie without him.

Did I have an appointment with grief this morning?  I thought I was going to clean up the downstairs.  Ok.  Calm down.

Five things I see:  all the art on the wall opposite, especially the poster of Eileen Donan.  Stuffed poodles.  A real toy poodle.  A pot plant in a plant pot. The face of Matt Ryan on the cover of SCREENtime. 

Four things I feel:  my arms on the table, my butt bones on the hard wood chair, my feet in socks on the floor, some pain in my upper back between my shoulder blades.

Three things I can hear:  my fingers typing on this too sensitive Mac keyboard, my tinnitus buzz, the distant hiway.

Two things I can smell:  well, this was a challenge to begin with because of the allergy medication so I stuck my nose into my little dog's fur (mmm poodle smell), then stuck my nose outside into the rain...mmm, rain.  Of course, rain makes me a little nostalgic.

One thing I can taste:  Peet's "Ethiopia Hambela Farm Organic" coffee (yes, I'm a member of the coffee-of-the-month club) with oatmilk and honey. 

OK.  It's so much easier to watch movies outside the house by myself because I've always done that.  But to watch on the small screen a movie that he, once upon a time, might have loved, just feels too sad.  I did watch Mank, finally, but had to break it into pieces separated by time.  I hated watching it small screen.  I hope it reruns big screen in theatres.

No, I don't want to buy a bigger screen.  I want to

GO BACK TO THE MOVIES!

Nevertheless, I shall attempt watching all the other Oscar nominees on my own.

Or not.