It's been a while since I've hit the keys. Wally, I'm realizing, is on a steady decline. I've had to hire two other people to help. One gay and someone I know--friend of a friend thing, helps me on Beto's day off. The other is to help Beto when I ride my bike on Wednesday. He likes women a lot, Beto, being a healthy hetro. He has a recently divorced woman with a wonderful brilliant child to help him. The kid is a delight, already the smartest in the family.
But it is a living hell here. Not in the since you might think.
You see, when Wally and I met and during the course of our romance, we never thought, like most couples in love, that some tragedy would enter our lives.
The problem with dementia is that, unlike cancer, there is no hope. It is always--ALWAYS--fatal.
And in the most twisted, cruel way imaginable. The patient isn't really aware of it, only that everyone else is acting strange. And you, the one that loves them has to deal with that.
At the gym one day, years ago, I saw a guy with a T that said, "Adapt Or Die." No truer words are there in all of knowledge. And, I try to live by them. "One Day At A Time." That's a good one to keep you from going fucking looney.
So I have adapted and I try, with good success, to keep it one day at a time.
I gotta go, and I'm not going to save this for later and let it pile up like my e-mail is anymore. More later on having help, help you, that's a whole other dimension.
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