When I speak of Burt’s return or of an upswing, I am grading on a curve.
After his recent declines, he has not achieved clarity, coherence, or cognitive functioning. He tells me of imagined trips where he met people with wonderfully unlikely names.
He insists I bring Tamara to him when I say, “I’m your wife, right here holding your hand,” and wonders why she won’t talk to him.
He has made up names for many things he demands I get him. The renaming is inconsistent, so I can not rely on a new vocabulary for guidance.
He does not understand simple instructions, so it’s hard to offer him guidance in simple tasks.
He forgets that he ate.
He remembers that I gave him prune juice when I didn’t.
He sees cars or people in our bedroom, sightings sometimes accompanied by a “watch out.”
He is paranoid. He is anxious.
He is aggressive and friendly in equal measure. He is apologetic and belligerent within seconds.
He no longer can do maths or organize his thoughts.
His gains, when they appear, are small and significant.
He is blessedly unaware of losses or accomplishments.
I am tracking those, attentive to any minor turn, rooting for any achievement.
this is our life 
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