A Small Victory the Size of a Tsunami

Dad was back to "normal" today. No mention of wanting to go home, no interrogation about why he was "in this place", no reading of the Devil's script.

Because of my relief, my exhaustion from answering his nonstop questions was happy exhaustion. We were back to "Where do you call home?", "What relation am I to you?", "Where do I go to pee?", "Do you have a husband?", and all the other regulars. It was like welcoming back the cast of "The Beverly Hillbillies" after you've had a brief, extremely unwelcome commercial break with Dr. Mengele.

Mom stayed home today, trying to get over her sore throat, and I spent the afternoon and evening with Dad. I had her write him a note, telling him why she wasn't there, so I could take it to him. He read it many times when he couldn't remember where she was. I would put it in his hands and ask him to read it out loud for me. His voice is soft and faltering and his reading is slow these days. Every time he got to the part where she wrote "You are not to worry about ANYTHING, OK?" I almost cried.

He'd sit and look at Mom's familiar handwriting and I'd say "Did you hear that? You're not supposed to worry about anything! OK?"

"OK."

The victories now are very small. We have to look harder. But they are still victories.