In the world of those with memory loss, even an innocent delicacy such as pudding has a story associated with an out-of-the-ordinary experience. It is 3:15 in the morning and I would have been quite happy to have answered the call of nature without awakening my own brain. If only I could have simply returned to my delicious fluffy pink blanket and my bed which is far too large for one person. It was a conversation with myself that brought me to the keyboard at this ungodly hour. I was thinking of the word pudding. And I knew that if I did not write down my thoughts immediately, they would disappear into the ether and never return again.

Pudding is delicious. Chocolate pudding with white whipped cream on top of it to be specific. I was always denied such goodies as a child whose mother watched calories much like a hawk stalks its prey. But now pudding is on my shopping list every week as it has become essential in the Diamond household. After a regime of pills which would exhaust even the best patient, when evening arrives, Hubby has had his fill of round objects forced down his gullet. Inevitably, the last dose of critical meds is the hardest to administer. His meds must be spaced at least three hours apart to avoid overdose. Normally his last lot is at 10 p.m. It is only two pills and a half of a capsule of prescription sleeping powder. The first two are not usually a problem administering, and the powder is cleverly hidden between two layers of chocolate pudding served up in an oversized spoon. One gulp and the day is complete.

On occasion, Hubby decides to be an independent human being who resists my regimen and refuses to ingest even one more pill. I cannot really blame him as I look at my own selection of vitamins, prescribed meds and cure-alls and wonder how I will ever get them all down the hatch. (Now, why do use that word as if we know what a "hatch" actually is?)

Still, if he refuses, life can become quite difficult in the wee hours when Hubby would awaken confused, thinking his day should then begin. We desperately need Hubby to be on our sleep schedule. Hence the seriousness of the rejection.

Last night, Hubby who sleeps in a bed with a button, which when pushed, elevates the upper torso, was in a semi seated position when given his last two pills. His feet were pushed against the horizontal board at the end of the bed, but would only need to remain in this awkward position for a minute or so while taking his final pudding dose. Hubby decided to refuse. He does not do this with gentility. When he decides he will not do something, it remains undone. This is serious. He continued to reject the pudding and I had visions of his hitting the spoon out of my hand and chocolate flying helter-skelter (another saying to be researched at a later date.)

I submitted to his temper. Temporarily. How to proceed now, with this challenge of wills? As is often my wont, I acted quite immature, and stalked off in a huff. I commanded the temporary aide to do absolutely nothing for hubby until he agreed to take his pudding. Please bear in mind that no pudding for him (with medication hidden therein...) would mean no sleep for me.

As is Hubby's inclination, he began asking that his needs be addressed.

I walked out of his room announcing that when he takes his pudding, we will do whatever it is he wishes. Until then, nothing. He kept requesting. I kept responding: "Take the pudding!"

You may not be surprised to discover that I won this battle. His legs were cramping and he could not possibly sleep in that awkward seated position. The aide gave Hubby his pudding and the battle was complete. I should not be so proud of such an accomplishment as the cards were definitely stacked in my favor. Still, I need to explain that as immature as my behavior may appear, when dealing with a loved one who has cognitive decline, reason has little to do with day-to-day activities. While you may be able to reason with a young child who stubbornly refuses to do as asked, there is no reasoning with a mind which cannot connect the dots, cannot deduce. It would have been lovely to simply have said: "Honey, we need you to take your sleep medication so that we can all have a restful night." Instead, it was necessary for Hubby to feel discomfort before actually doing what he stubbornly had refused earlier.

Having shared this vignette with you, it is now possible for me to return to the comfort of my own bed without tossing and turning, worried that I might somehow forget the brilliant thoughts that I have just put down to share with you.

The danger still remains, of course, that I will indeed wake up tomorrow and discover that this chapter was not as fascinating as it seemed it might be just thirty minutes ago. Such is the fate of an over-active mind which tries to unravel and record for posterity, the best way to approach the impossible.