We hear so much about taking care of ourselves first, so that we can better care for our loved one. Yesterday I tried. I booked some spa services at a very small local spa, where we've been before. They have a lovely space, soft music, big windows overlooking a well manicured lawn, big chair in the corner for my husband to sit that's only 10 feet from the spa table. I took him to the toilet twice during my treatment. I checked on him continuously, he always answered that he was good. Five minutes before my treatment was done, he got up and started picking up my bags. He had become cold. (I had a jacket on him) and when he gets cold, he starts to panic. He was halfway to a panic attack. I jumped off the table, took him the blanket I had over my body, settled him down, tucked him in, and when he had calmed enough to tell me he wa-s ok, I finished my treatment. Literally five more minutes. On the way out, I tried to take his water bottle from him and his finger got caught in the handle. He said as plain as if he hadn't lost the ability to speak, "Today just isn't my day". I got him to the car with minor stumbles and the stricken look on the esthetician's face was the last thing I saw as I drove away and tears flooded my eyes. Anything I do for myself, is not good for my husband. I try so hard to be selfless and strong. And I will admit that I tell people I'm fine when they ask, but it's because it's just an empty question, they don't really want to know that I have had to learn how to work a penis. So I spent $200 for a nice relaxing-ish spa treatment that ended in anxiety and guilt for having caused my husband a bit of discomfort. It won't change, but I feel like I need to wear a sign that warns people that I'm five minutes from panic at any sign of adversity.

Today I felt a burst of energy and got up ready to clean out some of the areas that are just collecting stuff. Off I go, laundry folded, another load in to wash, then I see him standing outside of the bathroom.

I follow his slow shuffle into the bathroom and see that he's already started (before taking his pants down). I get him settled, wait while he does his thing. I clean him up, but I decide that he needs a shower. Off we go to the guest bath where there is a tub and shower chair and all of the paraphernalia needed to bathe him without herniating a disc.

I notice that he is clutching at anything close. He's becoming unsteady and fearful, so I slow down and use a calm voice and a helping hand to calm him. I repeat, 9 times, where to hold onto the grab bars to get into the tub. Sitting down on the shower chair is another struggle. When you have dementia, sitting down on a chair that is behind you can feel like you're falling into the abyss. He crouches but won't commit. I finally talk him through it and he's ready for his bath. Warm water calms him and he likes the bath.

Hair washed, body washed and exfoliated, feet exfoliated, time to get out. He is wobbly as he stands, still clutching. He doesn't know what I'm telling him to do. He has forgotten how to lift his foot. He doesn't understand when I tell him to turn around. I gently shift his body but his feet are planted like palm roots. I tell him. I repeat. I demonstrate. I tell him I've got him as I feel the blood being squeezed out of my hand by his clenched fingers.

Still, I persist. One foot out. More repeating, shifting weight, more demonstrations. Finally, he gets the other foot lifted out of the tub. I've tried steps. That scares him. I've got soft adhesive on the side of the tub. I've got grab bars everywhere. Short of a remodel, I've done my best.

There he stands in a slight crouching position. His hands are like vice grips on mine. His body is tight like he's about to do a bungee jump. I towel him dry, difficult with the octopus hands grabbing the towel. I take his hand and tell him "let's go to our room and get you dressed". He's cooperative but his feet are not. They're still planted. We take a relaxing breath and I can see his crouched stance begin to soften, and I coax him to lift a foot. Slowly we walk the short distance to our room.

Putting on his underwear is another teachable moment. Lift this foot. Repeat. Repeat. Tap the foot. Finally, one foot is in but it takes a while to get his other foot off the ground. I find a thick cotton t-shirt and fish for his hands through the arm holes. Hand over head as I slip the shirt onto his body and I'm exhausted, dripping in sweat. I suggest a nap and help him into the bed. He's softly snoring now and I'm too spent to work on - what was I going to do today?