Last summer a very handsome man kept proposing to me over and over again. “I really like you and I want to move this relationship along. So the question is: Will you marry me?”

I’ve been crazy about this guy for nearly 30 years, but I just couldn’t bring myself to say yes. Each time he popped the question, I would throw back my head and laugh, squeeze his hand tightly and reply, “I really like you, too, but here’s the deal: We’re already married!”

All I got in return was a blank stare.

My husband can’t remember much these days. Five years ago, he was diagnosed with vascular dementia. It’s almost impossible to put into words all the mixed emotions one feels as you watch a beloved partner slowly turn into a dramatically different person. The man who once led such an active, vibrant, influential life now sits in a recliner chair all day asking me why he has so many “blank spots” in his head.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband turned to me and asked for five copies of his résumé. An odd request, but I’ve learned to forgo any sense of logic and simply enter his reality. I found a short version of his résumé and made copies for him. Slowly and methodically, he went through the pages. Finally, he looked up at me and said, “Thank you. Now I can remember who I am.” That statement goes to the core of my grief.