"Is this the house you say we own now?" he said as we approached our own porch, returning from an hour at the grocery store.  We have lived in this house for more than 30 years, but it was beginning to feel like it wasn't his home.  I should have known something was more seriously going wrong when he said my glass of milk looked good and he got himself some--in a bowl, and drank it.

"I am going outside to put away the tools," he said, "then I will put the bags of yard waste somewhere. Where should I put them?"  I answered, "how about the side of the yard by the new fence."  He responded, "But will the kids still get their ice cream?"  "Ice cream?" I queried.  He said, "Forget about that.  But will the men still bring anything?"  I replied slowly--totally confused--"just carry the bags to the side yard.  That's all.  Nothing else."  He sighed.  "Maybe I'll go draw a picture so you know what I am talking about."  I continued to try and explain, "The men will come on Monday and take away the yard waste when they pick up garbage."  "Well, that's nice of them," says he.  "I would say it's the least they can do."

I have developed the grand canyon of frown lines on my forehead from trying to understand his speech, let alone his meaning.  But the worst of all of it is the anxiety and the newly developing paranoia.