Alzheimer’s disease has taken so much away from my dear husband, Tony. However, flashes of his essence remain. Perhaps I’d miss them if I spent all my time focusing on all that’s gone.

Sure, my heart breaks when I think about all the long talks we no longer can have, the emotional support he’d always give me and all the adventures we would go on.

I miss hearing his voice the first thing in the morning, his silly way of altering words ever so slightly to make them funnier, and the deep resonance of his “radio voice.”

I miss how he would explain to me the finer points of hockey or what he was up to with the fire department when he was an inspector and fire investigator. He always had something new to tell me, and I treasured those discussions because I love to learn.

I miss how he’d hold me close to remind me he loves me. I always felt safe and appreciated.

Tony was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s disease in 2015. At that time, he was mostly the Tony that I miss now. Sure, there were some frustrating lapses in his memory and the beginning of the constant fear about what the future would bring. But we were a team, and we would face this thing together as we had everything else in our (at that time) 20 years of marriage.

Little by little, though, the disease took its toll. For a while, I could measure the changes in how he would express himself on paper. I have anniversary cards that begin with coherent sentences. Over the years, the sentiments become harder and harder to cipher. Yet, I always knew what he meant.

Tony hasn’t spoken a full sentence in a few years. Writing is out of the question. Now it’s a hit-or-miss proposition if he will feed himself or if I’ll need to do it. He requires help to get into bed and to get up each morning. He needs help bathing and getting dressed.

If I didn’t know him as I do, I might not recognize this man of mine. He looks older, certainly, than the day I married him, but then again, so do I.

Yet, one of the things I always loved most about Tony can turn up unexpectedly. There’s no telling whether he actually understands what’s going on, but I’d like to think he does.

Every now and then, he’ll get a playful look in his eyes, and his signature giggle will return. Sometimes it’s when I’m planting a kiss on his cheek or trying to make him dance with me. It’s mostly just trying to swing his arms, but occasionally he genuinely seems to go along with it and gets a big, goofy grin on his face.

But the most heartening thing: He has maintained his ability to tease me and give me grief.

My Tony was a master at the art of gentle teasing. He never did it in a hurtful way. His banter was part of his love language, and it’s one of the things that made Tony so special to me.

He’d usually have a remark to make if I said something self-deprecating. He was notorious for agreeing with me if I said I talked too much or something similar.

These days, it’s a bit more subtle, but it’s unmistakable when he does it. Tony’s other caregiver, Andre, and I will be talking and I’ll say something about talking too much or being old or the like. As soon as I say it, Tony will start giggling and raising his eyebrows.

Sometimes he will even giggle at just the right moment when a joke is told or something funny happens on TV. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but it occurs enough that I suspect that some things still are getting through.

Though so many things have changed, at least this essential part of Tony remains. And it still makes my heart flutter. Even if I’m the butt of the joke.

• Joan Oliver is the former Northwest Herald assistant news editor. She has been associated with the Northwest Herald since 1990. She can be reached at jolivercolumn@gmail.com.