I don't know.

I am thinking about assisted living, and I don’t know if I should be.

Tomorrow I will visit one of two nearby places which have special units for the memory-impaired. A week later I will visit the other.

It is not uncommon for people in my gig to swear, at some early point in the process, that they will always keep their damaged-other at home, no matter what. I never swore that. I never thought that. If I had made a pronouncement, at any time, it would have been to simply say that I would take each day as it came, and make no decision prematurely.

Right now, frankly, feels premature. I have not, however, made a decision. I haven’t even done my visits yet.

February has bowled me over like a giant rolling snowball. Two months ago I would have told you that this in-betweenish time—these doldrums of a diminished spouse who appreciates me, but cannot be left alone, would continue for years. This month, the creeping damage of plaques and tangles has staked its claim on his last hold on reality. He is in a different world. It’s a world the real and present me has been left out of.

So, I don’t say this out of hurt feelings or personal regrets...but here—this house, this life, this place, this relationship—has left him, and I’m not sure it has any role left to play in his ability to live out his days contentedly.

So, what now? If knowing me no longer remains his anchor, is it time to let go a little and try to rebuild some version of a life for myself, or not? It’s a heavy question, made no lighter by the fact that—should I find Jeff alternative care—I would be committing substantial family financial resources to something which has, as its main goal, the release of my life from indenture, maybe only a few years early.

This worries me a lot because I do not, at this point, have the vaguest clue what my life would then go on to be about. I feel like I’d have to justify its release through meaningful living, and I don’t know if I can do that.

Well, as I said...no decision, premature or otherwise, has been made. It could be a good ways off. And if there’s a facet to that decision about which I’ve become very clear, it’s this: Wherever Jeff is cared for—whether here or near here—family and friends must have relatively unfettered accessed to him, and whoever I am...I will remain in primary charge of his care and comfort.

still me

I’m beyond wigged out. But I’m fine.

Here are the questions for the universe. (Unless you are Miss Universe, you probably don’t know the answers.)

This week, Jeff usually doesn’t know quite who I am. He knows my name is “Emily Gillespie,” if I ask him. (The “Clement” part has fallen into a roadside ditch somewhere.) He does not think I’m his wife, even though her name is “Emily Gillespie” too. If I point out that we are, therefore, the same person, he reacts with a bit of a start, as if that can’t be true. Today, we had lunch at Punk’s Backyard Grill where he asked me date-like questions such as whether I have brothers and sisters, and what do I like to do? He also regretted that he had no cash on him. When I said, “that’s fine, I can buy lunch,” he promised to reimburse me later. So I decided to go with the therapeutic approach as we drove home, and I asked him what his wife is like. He replied, in the faltering way of expressing himself which has become the norm, that “my wife is...my life.” Then he told me that she died.

There is a book entitled Learning to Speak Alzheimer’s which espouses the theory that the goal with AD people is not to correct their misconstrued notions of time and facts, but rather to go with their flow, and distract as necessary. In general, I agree with this approach. But what—as in our case—if someone wrongly has the notion that his wife and son have died?

The part about Gabe seemed an easy fix: “Oh no,” I said. “He’s fine. I just texted with him today.” Jeff was glad to hear this and expressed mild relief. But is it not a bit of a shocking confrontation to insist that you, the stranger, are in fact the missing wife? I tried a sideways approach later, and showed him pictures from our wedding. “Who is that?” I asked, pointing to 22 year old me. “Thats...Emily,” he said. “And that’s Jeff,” I said. “That’s you. That’s you, that’s me. We’re a lot older now.”

He did that slight back-jerk of the head as he looked at me, because this was a bit of an unexpected revelation. But he showed neither relief nor denial. Just sort of an “ok...let me think about this...” kind of look.

Not that it matters. It will all be gone tomorrow, and whoever I am, he seems to accept my presence and help.

weird

I will just say this:

I was just watching the next-to-last episode of The Bachelor. Not sure how I got sucked in to this season, but it happened. It’s such a surreal combination of appalling and intriguing that I can’t utterly write it off, even though I probably ought to. Unquestionably, the producers don’t care about the appalling, as long as they can ratchet up the intriguing.

But anyway, after tonight’s episode I walked away wondering why, at this juncture, any more humans would subject themselves to such an absurdo-tragedy. Too crazy, too awful, and glad it’s not me.

Then I remembered that my husband of 27 years doesn’t reliably know who I am. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t known who I am for 3 days, and may never again realize that I’m the person he’s been married to for a quarter-century plus. Speaking of surreal absurdo-tragedies. Pretty silly.

still overwhelmed.

February has been a rolling wave of changes. Mostly I can't write about it yet. I will.

in de air

I am on the plane. I have probably had enough catfish in two days (2 po-boys and one overly-crusted with pecans fillet) to hold me for a bit. I also ate those beignets and downed some of that chicory coffee. So don’t get on me about not going N’awlins-native just because I didn’t consume anything with claws or pincers. Fish with whiskers will quite do it, I’d say.

Louisiana bayou climate is considered sub-tropical. What this means is that I will, while in that state, always look like I’m trying out for the role of “bedraggled villager” from Braveheart. The air there adds about an extra pound of texture to my hair, mostly in the form of frizzy bits and random lumps.

Just now I’m looking out the airplane window at the left-side engine, painted in Southwest Airlines blue, yellow, and red. On the yellow stripe is painted the universal restroom symbol of your basic hombre, surrounded by a red circle with a diagonal slash across his torso. This means “gentlemen, please do not hang out on this engine.” It makes no reference to whether Yeti may ride on the exterior of the plane. William Shatner, take heed.* And also, don’t count on the flight attendant bringing your tea, as her ability to serve seems to have plateaued at row 5, and you are in row 6.

I always read the in-flight magazines when I’m in the air. This particular issue of “Spirit” magazine contained an article designed to point you, by way of a flow chart, to the specific Arizona resort that will be perfect for you. The first question is: Which view would you rather wake up to? There are three choices, in pictorial form. a) a city skyline, b) the rocky peak of a mountain, and c) a horse’s head. Unable to resist, I took out a pen and wrote on the page, next to choice #3: “Wait...is it still attached to the rest of the horse, or not?” I think the layout staff set themselves up for that one, don’t you?

Flight 890 may be bringing an outbreak of something viral back to Baltimore (and on to Chicago.) Some overly-relaxed mother was allowing her 2 year old to demand high-fives from every human crammed into the waiting area of Louis Armstrong Airport, Gate B4. And, like a bee pollinating every flower in the garden, she made at least three rounds. How can you refuse to high-five a two year old? You can’t.

*please refer to a certain episode of The Twilight Zone.

ok, I did it.

On Thursday morning, I actually walked into the Café du Monde, then left, deciding that I needed something other than carbs with extra sugar for breakfast. The menu took me by surprise. Like a walk-up stand at Disney World, it had a very focused and limited selection--coffee, o.j., beignets. I think that’s about it, although they do offer a choice as to whether you’d like your coffee au lait, or black. The whole thing was a little Disneyesque in the sense that it seemed a bit too packaged...a little too Mary Poppins to be a local breakfast. Except for this: Café du Monde had real chipped paint on its cove molding, and genuine slight tinge of high-usage grime on its surfaces. At Disney these would have been present only in the form of artfully faked wear and tear.

Nevertheless, having been advised by at least 3 people that this must be part of my adventure, I went back there this morning on my way to the bicycle tour. And I sat, and ordered a coffee (the New Orleans kind, complete with chicory,) and the requisite serving of 3 beignets (whereas 1.5 would have been perfect.)

So now I’m am qualified to say: beignets are very tasty. Every once in a while carbs with extra sugar aren’t a terrible thing.

ask me

While I have never had my mother's superpower which causes every human she encounters to spill their life story, I have a related one. It is the "ask me" bubble which floats over my head. I first noticed it when I was a 16 year old, pedaling a barely functional bicycle along a country road in Lyon, France. A truck driver asked me (in French of course,) how to get...I don't remember where. And of course I didn't know, even if my direction-giving skills in French had been up to snuff. On the same trip people stopped me in the mall to ask for directions to "la librarie." I didn't know. But I did know it meant "bookstore." I don't look French. I just look askable. Same thing in London. Same thing everywhere.

Including New Orleans. Two different British people and an American couple wanted my advice on the St. Charles Avenue streetcar. A lady at Tulane wanted to know a good place to eat. And everyone, including the two guys in the hotel lobby, liked my shoes. So maybe it's the shoes. No, can't be. I didn't have those shoes in France when I was 16. Just the "ask me" bubble.

New Orleans, day 1

They say that plenty of being on your feet can help stave off many illnesses, including Alzheimer’s*. If this is so, I won’t be succumbing today, at least. (*means that my fellow AD spouses know to take this kind of advice with a larger than average grain of salt. Still, I’ll take the other health benefits, regardless.)

My feet were a little complainy today, by late afternoon, since I did not give them a break except for one round-trip streetcar ride.

There is quite a different character to the touristy parts of New Orleans at 7:30 am, compared to 3:00 pm. I will say that I liked the early hour better, except in that later, when the streets are mobbed with humans, I feel fairly certain that I will not stand out as the weakest zebra in the pack to a bag snatcher. Not that I saw anyone wearing a t-shirt labeled “bag snatcher,” but it’s the sort of thing people warn you about, so I went prepared. This is the first time I’ve toted a slim under-the-clothes pouch to stash my reserve cash, i.d., and credit card just in case. No point having a hassle getting home.

Then I went and did the dumbest. Hit one of those brain potholes and left my phone in the room when I headed out for my second-to-last stroll of the day. Not so bad, except that I didn’t know I did that, so had to take my French Market blackened catfish po-boy to go, so I could come back and check. Phew. Not bad, blackened catfish po-boys. There. I’ve had my Cajun food.

I will say this about Tulane University--if you want a large school and/or are interested in an area of study they happen to offer, it would be hard not to want to go there after a visit to the campus. Of course, I want to go to every college, nevermind my agedness.

Train 2

It is a rule of this trip that I may feel however I feel. Not that a rule outlawing that would change anything, but I mean I won’t try to talk myself out of a mood. Unless I feel like it.

Rob, the car attendant, made tea in the coffee machine. I guess he figured he had a 90% Brit population, and it might go over. I did not avail myself until after dinner, then I got a little, thinking it would be coffee. It was still tea. Maybe more accurately, teacoffee, since it was brewed in a coffee percolator, and is not completely free of coffeeness.

Meanwhile, I smuggled the unused half of my bottle of Woodbridge merlot out of the Crescent dining car. I don’t know if they have a problem with open carry in Louisiana, or on Amtrak, but I smuggled it nonetheless. Even though I really want white, so as to limit headache triggers, but they were out of white in the dining car.

Oh yes, as for moods which aren’t to be disallowed: I’m tired and I didn’t like my dinner of overly microwaved vegetables all that much. The sun is setting over MizSIPee. It will be dark when we get to NOLA in an hour and a half. I hope there will be plenty of United taxis, so I don’t have to call one. I did not sleep so super well. Not terrible, but not super well.

Not that I was thinking I could when I left home yesterday afternoon, but Jeff’s days on a train are over for sure. In the mix of not-disallowed feelings is the one where I’m very glad I’m not trying to manage him on the train right now.

Train 1

It’s a good thing I bought a chocolate-dipped shortbread cookie at Au Bon Pain when I was at Union Station, because by the time Elaine (who is a therapist from New York, heading to Birmingham to visit her father) and I finished our dining car dinner, neither of us had room for dessert. I will want it though, before I go to bed. I know myself.

I am in roomette #1, car 1910, on the Amtrak Crescent, destination New Orleans. To be traveling alone is, in and of itself, such a novelty that I’ve almost forgotten I’m in a perimenopausal fog, with a brain full of potholes. Yes, wow...just me. What does that feel like? I’m going to have to stop and think about it.

That, in fact, is half my purpose--what does it feel like to be alone? So far, I’m too distracted by Viewliner Car built-in toilets, fold-down sinks, and Words with Friends on the iPhone to even be sure. But I may have a clue by four days from now, when I fly home on Southwest.

Across from me, in roomette #2, is a couple from the UK. I would estimate that the majority of this car is filled with couples from the UK, in fact. They are going to New Orleans to board a cruise ship bound for Jamaica and other ports. I am going to New Orleans because that’s where this train stops, and also I’ve never seen it before.

It is 8:17, and I’m ready for Rob, the car attendant, to convert my roomette into nighttime format. Because I’m probably not going to check the lounge car to see if all the UKers are partying it up tonight. I’ll just sit here, and maybe knit a hat (which destiny will insist be too large for a human head,) and eat shortbread, and start reading a Kindle book (which will not be on my Kindle, but rather on my iPhone,) and watch the night lights of Virginia roll by. There...there was a MacDonalds.

limericks, maybe?

Tetralogy is a new word for me. But trilogy wasn’t going to work since the book I’ve just finished making is the fourth, not the third.

Still, as cool a word as tetralogy is, it might be more accurate to group book 4 with books 2 and 3, as a trilogy which was preceded by book 1. Book 1 is longer and more complex, but in no capacity less stupid. So, it depends on how you like to categorize, and I like to categorize in a way that lets me use the word tetralogy.

By not going the lazy route and snagging a legit publisher, I get to do my own patchy editing and build my own book covers. This way I can say I’m a bookmaker, and confuse people.

I don’t know what I’ll do next. For now at least, definitely not fiction for middle grade readers. I should have stopped writing fiction for middle grade readers 2½ years ago, after wrapping up the packaging for what was then the trilogy. But once I started #4, I unleashed an inescapable sense of obligation to some fictional people who had only just started to exist. They like their stories to resolve. So, in a carefully blended recipe involving one part implausible and two parts trite, I resolved it.

Well, I will have to do something next. The world can live without more bad fiction from me, but years have proven, repeatedly enough, that I have an essential rda of writing project. Furthermore, there are no more iterations of Portal for PS3, and Epic Mickey 2 won’t be released until the end of 2012. I cannot stand Half Life 2, as one is constantly beset by monsters, or security thugs firing guns, so there—I’m out of options. Bored babysitters go insane, and that won’t do anyone any good. So...something. Just not middle grade fiction.

Pentalogy is just not quite such a fun word.