Every progression brings a new dread. Burt has Lewy Body. I remind myself, and things could stabilize or revert to an earlier….
There was a glimmer of that last night. For all his earnest outpouring of ideas and his studied tone, most of his talk made no sense.
As it is so often these days, our conversation was overlaid with the bitter taint of my sadness.
He has hit a place where he no longer realizes that his thinking might be muddled.
The other night, for instance, stuck in his recliner, he couldn’t figure out how to get up, yet he said, “I am up.”
Everything looks normal from where he sits.
In many ways, I am glad for him.
He no longer carries the burden of “What’s wrong with me?”
My job is to accept what he says at face value, try to deflect the obsessive delusions that might trouble him, and to find the misplaced necessaries.
It helps if I am cheerful and refrain from yelling at him.
this is our life 