The other night I woke up from a dream I couldn't remember. As I lay in bed I was overcome with the terrifying certainty that there was a man in my bed. It took some time for me to remember that the man was Martin, my husband. It's a funny thing to blog about, it seems comical now, not even particularly original, but the feeling at the time was terrible, I was really frightened as I emerged from sleep into wakefulness and after the realisation dawned, it took some time for the fear to go away. I couldn't quite shake the sense that he wasn't supposed to be there. How terrible to have alzheimer's or some other dementia, to not recognise the people you love. How threatening their intimacy must seem.
Since this dream, I have begun reading My Phantom Husband by Marie Darrieussucq, a muted, haunting tale from the point of view of a woman whose husband one day vanishes, and I am writing an article about love and identity and love and loss of identity.