Today he said

"I used to love you, but not any more. You think you own me and can tell me what to do."
He almost bumped into the sliding glass doors as he looked for a way to leave our great room and "escape" from me.
That about says it all.

I hate Saturdays!

I hate Saturdays. They linger forever. I have things to do around the house, but Bob can do nothing so he drifts around following me, looking mopey, making me feel guilty for not sitting down and entertaining him.
Today I accepted that he "just wants to be with [me]" so I didn't let his shadowing bother me.

When I had some bills to pay and pants to shorten, I suggested we sit on the bed and he could listen to music while I worked. OK.

I came back with my sewing box and sat down.
He exploded, "Please (at least that) don't bounce around. I told you it hurts my eyes."
"I'm sorry. I had no idea. It's hurts your eyes?"
"I told you yesterday."
A bit more of that with him making little sense but me working to calm him and I suggested that I go back downstairs so I wouldn't cause his eyes pain.
"Sure. You'll be glad to get away from me."
"Bob, I'm trying to help you be comfortable."
"Can you talk any louder so all the people in this building..." he gestured broadly toward the bedroom ceiling and the fan "... can enjoy it. I'm sure they think we're idiots!"

It wouldn't surprise me if "they" do think that. I know we are.

What is anything really?

Life has been getting trickier each day lately. In addition to our regular feeding of the hungry, Bob's eyes continue to bother him (they're scratchy and dry) and he becomes unpleasant about them. He may be reaching the end of his ability to put on a happy face.

This morning a refusal to shave or shower came as a result of his being bothered when the eye drops ran down his cheek. Next he decided that he needed to see his cardiologist ... immediately. As I tried to find out why he felt this way, he told me that the nurse had told him to because once "you've had one heart attack it's likely you'll have another." He became angry when I mentioned that he hadn't had a heart attack.

Anyway I reassured him that he already had an appointment scheduled in February and rather than help him understand what February means, I turned on one of his favorite CDs and left the room; a bit later he was fine and willing to shave.

This disease demands that I keep the focus on myself. It's OK for me to become irritated with myself for lack of patience; it's OK for me to rant and rave internally about his little meannesses and his frustrating inability to understand. Those are ways I'll stay sane while I spend my time caring for him.

But, if I think of what's happening to him, I break up inside. How frightening not to know what Saturday is or to understand what the East Coast means or to remember his brother in law. I will be OK when this is over; I will be able to rest and I can think of him at peace and no longer struggling.

For him it will just be over.