I stepped back into our bedroom this morning to check on Bo before I went downstairs, and there he was, standing beside the bed, struggling to pull a pair of pull-up shorts over his head like a shirt.
“What are you doing, honey?” I asked as I went around to him.
“I don’t know,” and then he mumbled some incomplete thought about needing “to be there by -thirty.”
“You don’t need to go anywhere now,” I tried to soothe him. “There’s so much ice and snow on the ground that we don’t want to drive now. And you have no place you have to go today anyway.”
“Oh, OK, ” and then he let me help him back onto the bed.
After several surprisingly good days last week, Bo declined again on the weekend. He’s sleeping more, quite unresponsive and uncommunicative, just sitting and staring at the floor. He plays with his food, nearly falls asleep at the table, and is sad.
Because he’s sleeping more, I’m getting more sleep — helping him only two or three times a night, sometimes even once. Good for me, not for him.
Both Jon and I have seen him do some very strange things because he doesn’t recognize everyday items, even his shoes or glasses, razor or toothbrush; takes the peaches out of his dish and wraps them in a paper towel, puts his beans in his water glass.
Even yesterday, after being here every day for 18 months, Jon was a stranger to him. Almost every night Jon puts him to bed and I hear him say, “Sleep well, Buddy, I’ll be here in the morning to get you up.” Bo smiles and says thank you, yet he doesn’t know him.
He still knows me most of the time, but not all the time yet I am his security and comfort. It’s obvious in the way he calls for me and calms when I sit beside him holding his hand.