Sipping in Dementiaville

I sit in a chair beside Romeo's bed. We sip on soy steamers I brought from a local coffee shop, as Romeo enjoys an oatmeal raisin cookie -- his favorite sweet tooth remedy (besides chocolate, of course).

Romeo drops a few crumbs from his cookie onto his shirt, the bedspread. He asks me five or six times how he should hold the cup of soy milk so he can sip from it. He can't see well enough to detect the little drinking hole on the lid and asks me to point it out. I do exactly that. He lifts the cup toward his mouth but stops about 12 inches short. He holds the cup stationery and instead tries to move his head toward the cup of warm milk. This isn't working so well, as he can't move his head close enough to reach the cup.

"Romeo, move the cup to your mouth."

He can't figure out how to do this. I gently take his hand and move it toward his mouth, his fingers clutching the cup so tightly that the lid nearly pops off.

He stretches his lips and overshoots the hole. I realize it's simpler if I take his hand and back it up so the cup meets his outstretched lips. It works. He takes a drink, smiles, and begins the long journey to set the cup back on the tray in front of him. He misjudges the distance and nearly spills, but I'm right there to grab the cup without missing a beat. Another catastrophe avoided, without giving it a second thought.

A reflex, I do it without knowing what I do...until later. And then the full impact of it hits me. I am an extension of him. It's built into me. I anticipate his missteps, his wants and desires, and am there to pick up the slack, to present him with want he wants. As if he were me, as if we are One. Goodness gracious, this man, Romeo, tears at my heart strings.