"Is it 12 day or night?"

"I can't find you." The voice on the phone is fuzzy and the words are not clear. I know it's Casper- but it sounds like she doesn't know she's Casper right now.

"I'm working. I'm nearby."

"The clock says 12:00. I didn't know if it was day 12 or night 12." If she didn't sound so worried and confused it would be funny. But it's not. "It's noon sweetie. Let me come get you."

Five minutes later she's dressed but not completely upright. More like a tall ship in a stiff wind. Her entire body is going right, and her legs are following. Even her cup is at an angle in her hand. I'm again grateful she's using a cup with a lid and straw.

"Are you home now?"

"No, I came to get you. We can ride together today for a while."

"Are you sure?" It comes out sounding like a quiz about sherbet.

We have some trouble getting her into the car. Organizing feet and legs and arms and cups and the handhold to get into the Sequoia is a lot for her to manage today. That's weird, because Casper is a big truck aficionado. Finally in, she's disoriented- and today she can't cover it even a little bit. We have more slushy sherbet talk, Casper thinking she's clear as a bell, me straining to figure out the conversation.

Her phone rings, and she has trouble figuring out how to answer it. Then her brother is on the phone, and she has a connection again. I am relatively sure she sounded unusual, but he kept trying to have a conversation. When they were done she handed me the phone to turn it off.

Casper looks over intently. "I need choc-o-late. Something." You need what? "Can we get snacks?"

We stop at the monster sized bookstore with the coffee shop, and on the way to the books I need for a patient (MSW occupational and safety teaching- if you can't stand in a kitchen, use a crock pot and low sodium recipes!) we pass a shelf full of puzzles. Casper has dozens at home. She obsessed over them when this first started, then lost all interest and eventually could not manage the pieces with her tremors. Our bedroom had a table for puzzles, but she almost fell over it so many times we pulled it out. Today she's forgotten she doesn't like puzzles.

"3D. We can build a puzzle!" Oh my God. Jill building anything like that- yeah, this is why I hated geometry with a purple passion.  I can't figure out the simple items from Ikea. "Let's get the Eiffel Tower." Oh yeah, that will be easy. Suddenly I am holding a boxed, cut up Eiffel Tower for my own personal torment. But Casper is smiling and proud of her find. "Cookbooks. Want to help me?" "No, I know how to cook. You go find it. The letters are too small."

On the way out the bakery/coffee shop calls to her. "They have snacks.I see doughnuts!" The look on her face and her sudden brief smile remind me so much of Linda when she wanted something she knew better than to get- her "Please, Jillie, I'll be good" look that I miss. I can almost hear Linda's voice too at that moment. My two lives are colliding. The display case is filled with choc-o-late goodies: cream puffs, cakes, doughnuts, cookies... Chocolate chocolate chunk cookies. As big as a plate. Eyes sparkle. "I want two." I can hear Linda laughing in the background.

On the way out the check out is confusing, and the displays are tantalizing. We end up with extra stuff to take notes. We don't buy a single nursing book, which used to be the number one bookstore item for my nurse who never wanted to stop improving her skills and knowledge. She used to read medical books and assessment skills workbooks in her spare time so she would stay sharp. She kept that secret so she could be a better nurse. Today the look on her face as we passed those displays was pure sadness.

In minutes her face was covered in chocolate goo, and she was waving her hands around, like she was looking for something. "What's up?" "I forgot I quit smoking."

On the way home later she was asleep, unable to swallow properly, and choking. I wake her, and she doesn't recognize the neighborhood immediately. Even Casper can see something is really wrong today. I feel sadder still- just a few days ago she was insisting she was not sick and could still work. Today those sails are down, not just listing. It's flat air. She's afraid to be alone. 

Moments later she's in bed, asleep. The fear is gone for her, and she's resting peacefully. My two worlds continue to collide. I go back to work leaving my wife in bed, asleep, fighting a disease we can manage, but we can't beat. As I head out the door she wakes up and tells me she loves me. Her eyes are locked on mine. Old times and new times- illness be damned, love does conquer all, in it's own way.