And that's the point.
Every time I enter the memory care unit where my husband resides, I get staff comments on how much they love my husband.
I get anecdotes from the cleaning staff how he "helps" them by watching them clean and sometimes by picking up a piece of lint to give to them to throw away.
I get anecdotes from the staff how he approaches the young pretty blond ones with his arms open, ready for a hug and how politely he says "thank you" when he gets hugged or when a staff member gets him a glass of milk and a cookie.
"He's so cute," they say. "He tells me he's a chemist," they add.
He gets wonderful care from all of the staff members. They know he does not like to sit at the table to wait for his meal to be served to him, so they hand him his plate with one hand while escorting him to his seat at the table with the other arm around his shoulders.
The staff also knows that I arrive every day and they are taught to say something positive to the relatives when they visit.
And of course I can pass these little tidbits on to those who out of the kindness of their hearts inquire as to my husband's well-being.
It is so sad to hear these comments, to see how his life has shrunk, how little he is able to do.
He tried to watch television the other morning, it was a rerun of Bonanza. "It's hard for me to follow," he said when I entered the room. A staff member walked by. "I'm thirsty," he told her, "Would you like a glass of milk?" she inquired.
"Yes," he said and got up to follow her.
"You stay right there," he said to me as he walked off. When his milk was placed on the table, he sat down and completely forgot that I was there.