Sweet

In some ways, he’s more my child than my husband. He seems to acknowledge this on some level when he refers to me as his mother; of course, when he does, it’s part of his confusions, delusions, and hallucinations.

When I came back from an unusually late outing in which I enjoyed the hospitality of an Alzheimer’s Association party for caregivers, Burt was there to greet me.

It was sweet when he insisted on “waiting up for me.” He has had some trouble over getting up out of bed lately but struggled to go  sit in his big brown chair.

That’s the spot where I tell him to meet me when we plan my homecomings.

And there he was when I came home and happy to see me. It added sugar to what had been a sweet evening.