We’re on day four of antibiotics for Jim’s foot. His toes are still discoloured with infection and if he doesn’t keep it elevated, it swells uncomfortably.

Jim is stunned every time he tried to stand. He’s shocked when I say he’s had a sore foot for almost a week.

If it was my foot, I’d be constantly in tears from the pain. I guess that’s the upside to having very little circulation and feeling in his feet. The downside, of course is the infection would have been caught much quicker, had he been able to feel his toes.

I woke up at 4am to see him sitting on the side of the bed.

You okay, Babe?

My foot hurts. 

Yes, I know. You’re taking antibiotics to make it better. 

I am?

Yes, Jim, you are. It’s the middle of the night, why don’t you lie down and go back to sleep. Your foot won’t hurt as much when you’ve laid down. 

But, my foot hurts.

And round and round and round we go. He eventually let me tuck him back in and fell asleep.

I didn’t. From roughly 4:30am until we got up before 7am I managed to doze between his bouts of sleep talking.

Pass me the fork? 

Where’d the kids all go? 

Babe, did you file that paper? (Don’t worry, that was me he was talking to in his dream. We used to work together.)

Put it down, it’s dirty.

Where’s Pa? (his father died in the 60s)

When we finally got up, he came out to where I was sitting in the living room, and asked me if I was coming to bed. Even though it was 7:48am and the sun was shining. The poor guy was so confused and still surprised that his foot was sore.