Take that, dementia! 

Martin and I were jigsaw puzzle and crossword puzzle nerds even as his brain cells dwindled.

While he was still at home, I’d print out his daily crossword puzzle and hand him a pen. He’d fill in a letter here and a word there and within the hour he was done. Sometimes he was up for another puzzle. Other times, not. Sometimes he’d ask for help with a clue. Other times, not.

Later, when he was asleep, I’d review the puzzle. Of course, it made no sense. Every square was filled with a random letter or a random word that fit the space. 

I never called him on it.

When dealing with dementia you celebrate the little things: the fact that he still knew what a crossword puzzle was, the fact that he remembered he enjoyed them, the fact that he knew what letters were and the concept of written words, the fact that he knew what a pen was for, the fact that he knew what a wife, a printer and paper were. One day he wouldn’t.

Jigsaw puzzles were a little trickier. He would become frustrated as he tried to fit pieces that clearly did not match in size or color. Sometimes he’d blame the company for producing a defective puzzle. So, I came up with a different approach, which was easy to do because as a caregiver changing course multiple times in the middle of a swollen, turbulent river is what you do. It would be a two-purpose method that would enhance our time together and save his dignity. 

Martin’s job was to turn all the jigsaw puzzle pieces over to their proper side, thus working on his hand-eye coordination. That could take days—thus improving my patience—and he loved it. Once that was done, I'd start putting the puzzle together, but would  suggest that it would be awfully helpful if he could color sort and put the reds with the reds, the blues with the blues, the greens with the greens. When he’d find, say, an already sorted red with a purple, he’d say, “You little bugger, how did you get there?” and he’d confidently put the red with the white pile.

Again, didn’t call him on it. What purpose would it serve? None. All that mattered was living in the moment, enjoying the moment and making him feel that he still mattered.  

I will go to my grave believing that they are never 100% gone. This is not magical thinking. I have seen the glimmers of awareness and recognition. I know they are real.