Is there anything harder?

Watching your love wallowing in confusion, delusion, and hallucination is hard. Even heartbreaking.

Hearing that somewhere in there, he knows of what he suffers is worse. His understanding may lack exactitude and science, but he is aware.

Commiseration is the best and the least I can do.

Knowledge of his condition is imperfect in every way. It frightens him and casts a pall of depressive brooding over him.

Right alongside his self-awareness are the requests to call his mother and tell him where his father went.

He is periodically jolted into the realization that they are both dead. Likewise, he is surprised (mostly happily so, I am happy to say) that I am actually his wife.

Like with other contradictions in his mind, that fact doesn’t stop him from wanting to call some other wife.