"When she wakes up, if she has slept at all, she tells me about the giants carrying trees and bushes on what she calls zip lines..."

"... which I am able to identify as telephone wires. Beneath the busy giants, she explains, there is a marching band playing familiar tunes by John Philip Sousa. She is not especially impressed by either of these things, and the various children playing games in the bedroom annoy her. 'Out you go,' she says to them. Then she describes the man with no legs who spent the night lying beside her in bed. He had been mumbling in pain, but nobody would come to help him. She remembers her own pain, too. 'I could hardly move,' she says. And she can hardly move now. Her legs are stiff, her back is cracking as I lift her out of bed.... She asks me if I saw the opera. I’m not sure which opera she means; we’ve seen many over the fifty years that we’ve been married. She means the one last night in our back yard. She describes it in detail—the stage set, the costumes, the 'really amazing' lighting, the beautiful voices.... " 

From "Living with a Visionary/For more than fifty years, my wife and I shared a world. Then, as Diana’s health declined, her hallucinations became her own reality," by John Matthias in The New Yorker — a fascinating account. The woman's health problem is Parkinson's disease, and the man tries to deal with these intense hallucinations by going along with much of it, but he develops problems of his own.