One day at a time (that's the only way there is, right?)

It hasn't been a promising week on the Alzheimer's front. We are going to take the garbage and recycling out, I say with my therapeutic expression of friendly invitation. Jeff jumps up. He is ready to roll. Do you want to get the blue bin out of the closet? I ask.

The blue bin is a small plastic waste can into which we cram all recyclable paper until such time as it goes outside to the big yellow bin. We empty it every Sunday, for Monday morning pick-up. On some days which aren't Sunday, Jeff just takes it out and dumps it for something to do. But today he is bewildered by both the term "blue bin," and the concept "closet." He hovers near me as I remove the full plastic garbage bag from the large trash container in the kitchen, and tie the ends closed. Then I walk him over to the closet and point to the blue bin. Why don't you grab that?

Outside, he follows me to the road, spies the partially full yellow bin (which I have already pulled out,) and makes ready to drag it back to the house. No, it's full, I say. They're going to pick it up tomorrow.

Later that night, going to the Hippodrome Theater where we will see Stomp with my mom, Gabe, and Gabe's friend Matt, Jeff cannot find the door of the car, cannot fasten his seat belt, forgets how to hand the lady at the door his ticket 30 seconds after I place it in his hand, then tries to walk through a glass door, instead of the open one next to it. I am nearby to hand over the ticket myself, then steer him through the doorway.

Today proves little better. We are labeling and stamping concert association postcards with a handful of volunteers at Mom's dining room table. I know Jeff cannot put the labels on in the proper place, nor the stamps. I have him peel off then hand me stamps. It's not a speedy way to get things done, but we move along, and when he hands me bits of the plain white sticky paper framing the sheet of stamps, instead of a stamp, I simply stick it to a sheet of scrap paper and wait for the next one.

Nowadays I open his sandwich wrapper at Whole Foods, spread it out, and orient the sandwich halves for easy grabbing. I open the chips and aim the bag opening toward him. I unfold a napkin for maximum absorbent surface exposure. It's a good lunch. Jeff praises his "Santa Fe Sunrise" sandwich, and I enjoy my salad bar stuff.

I confer with my mom by phone. Yes, she has noticed a decline. She uses the word "precipitous," but I don't think it quite is. She notes that my grandmother, in her declining years with Alzheimer's, lost functions gradually. First the function would blink on and off for a while, like a dashboard light with bad wiring. Later, it completely conked out.

Jeff sits on the couch, and I sit in the rocker and read an entire chapter of Bill Bryson's The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid until I am about out of voice. Jeff likes it. He doesn't get every single nuance, but the chapter is about Americans' fears and fascinations in the 50's--nuclear detonations, Communism, teenagers--and he remembers the time well, as he is only a very few years older than the writer. We note that somewhat-crazy politicians are nothing new.

In between the day's dynamic adventures I have answered review questions in Japanese, washed laundry, and read commentary from both sides on today's big news--the health care overhaul has passed Congress--making a pleased comment or two myself, while being careful to keep my tone non-incendiary. The rancor bewilders me. In a two-party system sometimes it will go this way, sometimes that. The world as we know it is no more likely to end than it was last week. Jeff notes that our very conservative friend Bill is doubtless on a rant of epic proportion today. Jeff isn't bad at reasonable observations when he's sitting still.

It is 7:30 pm. I have nothing left to provide in the way of entertainment, so Jeff goes to bed. I am going to watch "Property Virgins," an HGTV program about first-time home buyers. I don't know why I like "Property Virgins"...maybe Sandra Rinomato's overbearing personality makes me feel sensibly mild-mannered. Or there's just nothing else on, and I like the sound of human voices sometimes, even if it's only pseudo-company.