thief

Dementia is a thief.

It steals so damn much.

...Repetitively.

                 ...Slowly.

                         ...viciously, in its hidden places.

It takes away my strength, energy, and abilities to do things I normally don't even think about but do quickly and easily.

It takes away his dignity in every way imaginable. In all those ways we are vulnerable and private.

The bathroom. The bedroom. The shower. Taking medications. Feeding oneself. Following simple instructions. Figuring out how to do simple things one has done all of one's life.

Relationships... friends, family, spouse... yeah, even me.

Sometimes he will be talking to me and say that we need to talk to ~c about that.

ouch... ouch... oh, damn, deep pain... ouch.

In my heart, I scream... "wait!!! I am ~c" ... but I don't say it out loud because I know that he still knows who I am and he just got his words mixed up. Again.

But it still breaks the deepest part of my heart. The part where the thief has taken away just one more thing that hits at the foundation of us.

And then depression takes its shot at me, too. The other thief.

I will fight these thieves, even though I know there is no possible way to win against one. For as long as possible, I fight with the Man for us... for him... for myself... even though I know the thief of demetnia will win eventually.

That's what love does. It fights always. And I love him.

the other thief will NOT win. Depression lies, and will not win.

... may there be mercy, and peace in the battle and losses.