For someone with Alzheimer’s or dementia, words don’t just disappear all at once—they slip away, bit by bit. At first, it’s subtle, like mixing up the names of things. Later, it becomes long silences, where the words just won’t come.

When Doug can’t remember the word for “watch,” he calls it a “wrist clock.” It’s close enough, and I know what he means. These days, he uses more descriptive phrases, and fortunately, because I know his history and the way he thinks, I can often figure out what he’s trying to say.

For those of us without cognitive challenges, communication is second nature. For my sweet guy, it’s becoming a struggle. The disease is steadily damaging the parts of his brain responsible for language, and it won’t get better. Sure, there are good days and fleeting moments of clarity, but the progression is undeniable.

Recently, I’ve noticed him having a harder time finishing sentences. Sometimes, he just stops mid-thought, and there’s silence. It’s not rudeness; it’s just the disease. Communication, once so easy, is no longer natural for him. This is why he’s becoming quieter. I’m learning to change how I speak to him. No more open-ended questions like “What sounds good for lunch?” Now it’s, “Do you want a sandwich or soup?”  Giving him a choice allows him to make a decision at best, and protects his dignity.