I wasn’t at all surprised that Kate was up earlier than usual yesterday morning. She had rested plenty the day before. She was also alert and even called me by name. She got ready early enough for us to make a trip to Panera before leaving for lunch.
It was an unusually pleasant and leisurely lunch that was a beautiful example of how much pleasure one can have living in the world of a person with dementia. We had at least a thirty-minute conversation that a listener might have found interesting without realizing that Kate has Alzheimer’s.
It began when I said something about a memory of a sailing trip my brother and I took in the Virgin Islands with our two sons when they were about twelve or thirteen. Kate often responds to something like this by saying, “Why didn’t you take me?” That prompted me to say that except for business trips it was the only trip I had ever taken without her.
As I started to tell her the story of that trip, I mentioned Kevin’s name. Our conversation seemed so normal that I assumed she knew that she was Kevin’s mother. Then she said, “You’re a father?” I told her I was and said, “And you’re a mother.” She scowled and said, “No, I’m not.” That led me to ask how she thought we were related. She said, “Friends. Good friends.” I said, “Who are living together.” She frowned and said, “I would not express it like that. I’m surprised that you would even say that.” I said, “Why not? We live together.” She said, “Yes, but you know what I mean.” I said, “We’ve lived together for a long time.” She said, “That’s different.” I asked if she would ever think about having children. She said, “I would like to have children some day but not yet.” Then she said something funny, but I can’t remember what. I said, “That’s one of the things I like about you. You can be funny.” She said, “Only around you. When I am with my girl friends, they don’t think I’m funny.”
About that time, I suggested it was time to leave. I said, “I love you.” I read her lips. She said, “I love you too.” And we left for home.
