Lying in bed at night I can almost pretend that our life is normal. Jim curls around me when I crawl under the covers and his arm is a comfortable weight as he holds me close. Just the two of us, skin to skin, intimate and peaceful together.

This is what the caregiving books don’t warn you about. Most are written for children looking after their aging parent. They don’t warn you that your love’s muscle memory is a brutal tease.

It’s not Jim who wants to get close to me. Most nights, it’s merely his muscle memory, putting him into a familiar, comfortable position as he drifts off to sleep.

Nevertheless, it lulls me into a fool’s paradise. A place where for a few minutes I can pretend that life is normal and Dementia hasn’t affected every sentence spoken or action made. 

My heart breaks.

It’s so bitter sweet. With Jim’s arm around me, I feel loved. I feel safe. I feel that he’s there to support me. Even though I know in the cold light of day, he can’t. I try to take these little moments and let them rebuild me from the inside and fuel my emotional tank enough to let me carry on for a for another day.