I wish he had at least had the decency to ask me if I minded that he went ahead and got dementia.  His words of reassurance, “It’s not The Big A,” did little to reassure anyone of anything, since we heard that line a year before our friend Harry started wetting the bed and forgetting how to use a spoon.  And anyone not used to talking at length about ailments would have to ask what The Big A was anyway, and once you said the word, breathed it into the wild existence of possibility, it was real.

           If he’d only asked me first.  We all know I would have said, “No way,” but at least I would have had a say.   In sixty years the only other thing he’s brought home without asking was a tub of mint chip ice cream from Bedford Farms down the road, which he now does once a week.  And we all know I say, “No way,” when he asks if I’d like to join him for a scoop or two, and when he rolls his eyes I giggle and scoop two parlor dishes full, his with slightly more. 

           With ice cream in our hands we relax and talk about the grandchildren.  Their pictures are everywhere, but now they have children of their own and all the babies and teenagers and marrieds and not marrieds are giving his mind a run for its money.  I tell him who’s who and beg him to listen more carefully and follow the story.  No, she’s coming to town next weekend.  Yes, her husband is the one who works with computers.  He patches all these holes with memories of how much he paid per square foot in his first produce stall in the early 1940s, the number of the house on the street in Cambridge where he grew up, the name of the mother of the friend he lived with while he was stationed in California during World War II.  None of this matters anymore, except to prove that the memories are there.

           I’m a little stuck.  If it’s not The Big A, I refuse to treat him as if it were.  But since I never asked for the dementia to stop by, I don’t exactly know how to treat it.  I’ve always been a welcome hostess – when forewarned that someone would be coming over – but I have to admit I’d rather ignore this guest than try to accommodate all its little quirks.  Like watching TV, for example.  He wants to watch the Red Sox game, but this other thing keeps telling him the wrong channels and then he gets angry.  I try to correct him, but that only makes it worse.  Lately he’s been telling the grandkids things about me, like how I always think I’m right and he’s wrong and maybe he should just quit talking altogether.

           Oh my love, how my heart breaks.  How I hate this other, this casual un-Big A that is disrupting our dinners, our stories, your jokes, your walk, your phone calls, your confidence.  Please do not forget that you drove eleven miles just to pick me up while we were dating.  Do not forget that my hair was dark brown when we were young, and do not forget that I always wear slippers in the house.  And if you should happen by the grocery store on your way home, and you forget that I asked you to pick up a piece of fish and two tomatoes, at least please try to remember the ice cream.  You’ll remember that I want it, even though I didn’t ask, and you’ll remember to come home.