Small pleasures

The neurologist characterized Carl’s “progress,” along his rocky Alzheimer’s road, as “medium”.

Thinking about it later, I wondered what “medium” means – really. I must ask when I can.

I’m wondering whether Carl could be on the not-so-good side of “medium”. Or maybe even a bit beyond that.

One person who wrote to me mentioned that her mother had concealed her progress from the daughter. It’s an idea that hadn’t occurred to me. But thinking about it, that could explain some things I see.

Carl makes these horrible jokes. He says something that doesn’t make sense, and I start to explain how it really is – or at least, I start to explain how I see it. Carl responds by saying he was only joking.

For some unfathomable reason, I never find myself chuckling at that point. I don’t know. Perhaps Alzheimer’s has a radiant, debilitating and withering affect on any sense of humor in the vicinity.

Maybe he did make a joke. I certainly can’t say for sure.

But maybe he said something that he quickly realized didn’t quite make sense, and then he jumped in to try to transform it from a flub into a joke.

He does sometimes make jokes where he laughs as he says them. So maybe those others actually were jokes – or at least some of them. Again – I just can’t say for sure.

Looking back at this analysis of humor – at my reasoning – what does it tell me? Does it perhaps say more about me than about Carl? I don’t know.

It seems that Carl needs more prompting today than he did not so long ago – and more repeated prompting and assisting.

I thank the stars that we two are gay men – with a long-term closeness. It makes a few things easier for us – than they would be for say a mother-daughter pair.

If he gets confused, and then distressed by my prompting, I can touch his face – I can hold him close – I can gently kiss his lips – and I can tell him that I’m just trying to help. So far, at least, his distress and resistance have melted away. So far.

As I said, our closeness – and our relationship – make some things easier.

But at some point, I realize that I’m pleased – almost made giddy – by the smallest things.

If Carl is making his coffee, and he remembers, on his own, to use the Brita filtered water, rather than tap water, then I find this tiny, invisible huzzah bubbling up inside me.

If he points to the fifth lid, in the 7-day pill organizer, and says “Thursday,” I feel a quiet little hallelujah. Then sometimes, he says “Tuesday,” and my heart plummets through my heels, and doesn’t stop there.

Sometimes, after our shower, he’s not sure what to do next. I have to lead him to the room that has his dresser and talk him into putting his t-shirt on. Too often I have to lead him back again, because he didn’t put socks on. And then some days, I point him to “the front room,” and he returns appropriately under-attired.

If I pause a moment to consider it, I realize that as time progresses, I will be grabbing at smaller and fewer straws.

It’s the little things today. And it will be the little things tomorrow.