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I can't believe it's been so long since I last posted anything on here. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but part of the reason is that I forgot I had a Yahoo 360 page. (I forgot I had a MySpace page, too.)  Of course, forgetting things is par for the course these days, the magic of early onset Alzheimer's. It's rare that I know what day it is. Thankfully, my watch, if I remember to put it on, tells me both the day and the date.

Of course, most days, I don't put my watch on. That's because most days I don't manage to get dressed. Unless I have to go someplace (store, meeting, doctor's appointment),  I just don't seem to get my act together.  On an average day, I get up somewhere between 11 am and noon. Often I don't actually want to get up then, but I do have morning meds I'm supposed to take. Theoretically, they should be taken in the morning. But there have been days when I didn't remember to take them until 4 pm!

I'll usually get myself something to drink, either juice or root beer, or if I'm energetic, instant coffee. Then I check my email, read the news online (to make sure that Bush didn't destroy the world while I was sleeping), check the weather. I guess it would be at this point that most people would decide to shower and get dressed. Not me. I go into the living room and lie down on the couch and watch TV. Not that there's anything particularly fascinating on at that time. I don't "do" soap operas or talk shows. But the plain fact is, after my strenous late morning beverage and email experience, I am actually tired again. Not "fall asleep" tired, but just "need to rest" tired.  So I watch a bit of TV. Then, believe it or not, I might actually need a nap. I try not to do that, because I know it will make it harder to sleep at night, but sometimes I'm just too tired to do anything else.

Some days, I find enough energy to make dinner. A week or two ago, I even roasted a duck, an elaborate French recipe that needs to be started 36 hours in advance. (It was OK... we're not big fans of duck... I did it more for the culinary experience!) Yesterday, I made an Italian fried chicken that was pretty good, along with garlic mashed potatoes. Today, cooking wasn't happening for me. No energy. Larry made hot dogs, and then I took a nap for a couple of hours.

Now it's after midnight.  Larry went to bed about 45 minutes ago (which is late for him). Last thing he said was, "Try not to stay up till 5 o'clock." In my defense, I think I only stayed up till 4 last night, not 5. But I could be wrong. (It was productive time... I was fighting with this miscreant of a computer. The new graphics card, which was supposed to solve some of our problems, has actually made things 100% worse. All drivers are updated, and it should be working properly. Card's manufacturer, of course, is taking their own sweet time about responding to my plea for technical assistance.) So I was up half the night trying to accomplish a simple task that should only take 4 minutes to do. It's easy to lose track of time when you're busy like that (or when you have trouble remembering how to tell time in the first place!)

I wish I had something fascinating to write, like my last post about messed up sleep and visits from my late cat, Louisa. Fortunately for my sleep (unfortunately for literary purposes), I rarely have nights like that anymore. Switching my Aricept from a night dose to a morning dose has allowed me to have a slightly more normal sleep. Although I do miss hearing Louisa purr!

It’s 4 am. My cat Louisa jumps up on the bed and walks up in between my partner and me. I reach up my hand and rub her head. She purrs a bit. Of course, I know Louisa has been dead for years, but I’ve gotten used to these nocturnal visits.

 

No, this isn’t about pets who return from the dead. This is about a night with Alzheimer’s. I don’t know why, but since my diagnosis in 2003, my symptoms are worse at night, particularly when I’ve been sleeping.

 

But there’s Louisa… I can feel her fur, her weight. I must be dreaming… but why does it feel like I am awake? Let me ask… who is the person sharing my bed? During the day, I know his name, but at night, for some reason, I get confused. Is it my brother John? Sometimes, but when it is, he’s only around 20, instead of his real age of 46. Or is it my ex? Thankfully, no, although sometimes that’s the name I call out. No, it’s Larry, my partner.

 

I need to wake up, so I thrash around. If I make enough noise, it will wake up Larry, and he will wake me up. It works. I’m making an awful racket, or so it seems to me. But in reality, I’m probably groaning or something, just enough that it wakes up Larry, he puts his arm on mine, and asks if I’m all right. Awake now, I say yes, and he goes back to sleep.

 

I’m awake now. But there is a blue and white inflatable raft leaning against the side of my bed. Why? We don’t have a pool, and don’t live near the beach. I must be falling asleep again. So I get out of bed. All this is fascinating. I should go to the computer and put together a blog entry while this is still fresh in my mind. I stop at the tall bookshelf.

 

I’m looking along the spines of the books. I recognize my high school yearbook, but I don’t remember the title being on the spine. So pull it out a bit to read the title: “When I’m Only Writing About Myself.” That’s strange. Here’s a book called “How to Write,” by Isaac Asimov. A couple of thoughts occur to me: First, I don’t own such a book, if such a book even exists. Second, there is no tall bookshelf between my bedroom and the small office where the computer is. I’m dreaming again. This is fascinating! I have to write all this down… who’d believe it?

 

In order to wake up, though, I have to be back in bed. With a monumental effort of making noise and shaking myself, I find myself back in bed. And here comes Louisa, walking over to me. I reach up and pet her. She purrs. OK, I’m back in bed, and dreaming. Now I have to wake up. I go through the “making noise” routine to get Larry to wake me up. It works.

 

I reach over to the lamp and turn it on. Larry looks over at me. For some reason, the Russian word for “dementia” is repeating over and over in my mind: Cлабоумие… слабоумие. There are definitely times when being multilingual isn’t a good thing. Cлабоумие… слабоумие. Why won’t it stop? I’m getting out of bed when I see the thing sitting on the edge of the bed. What is it? A large salamander? A gecko? Probably watching too many Geico commercials. Either way, it can only mean one thing: I’m not really awake.

 

I’m back to where I started… First, I have to find myself back in bed with the light off. Then I have to get… what’s his name? My brother John? My ex? No, Larry. That’s right. I have to make enough noise for Larry to hear me and wake me up. What time is it? I look at the clock. It’s about 4:40. I start making my racket again. Larry’s hand on my arm: Are you OK? I say yes and sit up. I turn on the lamp… nothing happens. I learned long ago that lamps that don’t work mean I am still asleep.

 

But each time I “wake up” seems so real. How am I ever going to know when I am really awake? This is why we had to put a mattress pad on my side of the bed. I’ve been fooled a few times, thinking I was in the bathroom.

 

What was it going to take for me to wake up? Cлабоумие…слабоумие. Stop that! I must have made noise, because Larry wakes me up. It’s 4:50. I want to get up and write this down. But I’m tired. I didn’t go to bed until after 1:30. I start to doze. Louisa hops up onto the bed. I pet her, and then force myself awake. Louisa isn’t here; she’s dead. I look at the clock. Still 4:50. I sit up and reach for my glasses. Larry wakes up and says, “What are you doing?” I tell him I’m getting up. He says it’s too early. I say I know, and go to the kitchen. I make a cup of instant coffee. (I distinctly remember putting in the sugar, so why does it taste so bitter?)

 

And now, here I sit, writing this… I hope. If Louisa comes strolling in to the room, I’ll know I’m in trouble!