I should have lied.

I wish I had. When she asked, "Do I seem different to you?" it would have been so simple to say, "No." That was the answer she wanted, no doubt needed. I'm sure of it.

But, no, instead I answered, "Do you want the truth?"

How stupid is that? I mean, the very question is thick with implications, most of them ominous or at least unpleasant.

She did want the truth, she said. What else could she say? "Please, Carol, lie to me." Yeah, right.

So I told her the truth. "Yes, you seem different." Silence. That should have stopped me.

Did she ask me to elaborate? Did she ask, "Different how?" I don't remember, but I elaborated." You seem less sure of yourself. I remember you as always sure, always confident." Then, thank goodness, I stopped talking. But it was too late. She was crying.

If we had been together, if all this had not been over the phone, I could have put my arms around her and said, "I didn't mean it," or "Actually, today you seem like yourself, much more than the time I came over to visit." Which was true. She did seem better.

She takes three pills a day, she said, "and they are helping. I feel much better, much less paranoia." And so on. But this was early in the conversation, right after her announcement: "I've been diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease." The first words out of her mouth, actually.

I already knew she had that. She didn't know I knew. And she is different, not the same person. I am so sorry to say it, to know it. And was I predisposed to thinking of her in a different way because I knew it? Surely I could allow her to be better than I expected, if you know what I mean.

And I could tell the pills are helping. I wish I had said that to her.

How much will they help? I'd like to know. Can they stop the disease? We are told nothing can, but maybe this is something new, better.

The rest of the conversation found me telling her things like, "Now that sounds like you," in response to something she had said. And it was true.

Did it do any good? I don't know. Did I do her harm? Oh I hope not. We did laugh again.

What I want to do now is go over there and sing to her, sing with her, some of the songs we sang together. And I spent that sleepless night singing some of them. Out loud. Very loud.