My husband, Mick, winced in pain as I rinsed the soap out of his eyes. “Sorry,” I said. He tried to say something but stuttered, unable to get the words out. He finally gave up and just sighed, frustrated.
Mick had Alzheimer’s disease. He’d lost so much coordination, he needed help doing almost everything, such as washing his face. I’d gotten pretty good at taking care of him over the past nine years, but I sometimes made mistakes. Mick clearly trusted me, but I worried—did he still know who I was? Did he remember we
