And Then There's This... Norma: Let the Rest of the World Go By

This is the Jan. 22, 2020 excerpt from “Stardust: An Alzheimer's Love Story,” my day to day accounts of caring for my wife, Norma, in the advanced stages of her dementia.

I think I hear her footsteps and hope I'm wrong.

“Hello?” Her voice sounds tentative, maybe a little frightened that no one will be there to answer her.

I sit up in my bed, two doors down the hall from hers. It's dark outside. I look at my phone.

“Honey, it's just 5 o'clock,” I say, raising my voice to what I hope is a firm but comforting level. “You need to go back to bed.”

“OK,” she says.

Fearing she won't know what to do, I get up and go to her room. She's standing at the door as I knew she would be, looking straight ahead and dressed in her alarming red pajamas, which, to quote Ian from “Spinal Tap,” look like an “Australian's nightmare.” She is so endearing in her frailty that my heart melts and with it all my annoyance.

“Let me help you back to bed,” I tell her. “I'll lie down with you.”

She seems pleased. So I tuck her in, go back to get my phone and return to her bed.

For the past few months, she's gone to sleep every night listening to Willie Nelson's “Stardust” album, often three times in a row. So I hit the “Play” button and listen again with her. These are the songs she danced to in high school, sang in assemblies and talent shows, no doubt made love to. They are the sound of a world at its youthful best, where the skies are blue, every street has its sunny side and there's always someone to watch over you.

We lie there together, ancient allies, shoulder-to-shoulder, drifting away to “Stardust” and rehearsing eternity.