He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember our current house. It’s one he lived in for over two years. He’s only been in memory care three months. He was still driving a year ago. He is slipping away. It feels like the declines are accelerating. Yet, he still says every day that he is getting better. His memory is getting better. It isn’t. He doesn’t recognize well-traveled roads. He doesn’t recall his hospital stay. Yet, he remembers the entrance to our old neighborhood with our previous home. It is unusual. There is a triangular median between the entrance and exit. He drives by it on his way to the gym with a friend. Yet, when I ask about the house on that street, nothing. It’s the house we brought two of our babies home from the hospital. We rocked them in their brand new nursery. Nothing. It’s the house we lived in for fourteen years. It’s the house our kids grew up in until FTD forced us to downsize. It’s the house with the hand-me-down swing set. Neither house. Nothing.
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