January 31. I circled the date on my desk calendar at work with a blue felt-tip pen. It was only the Wednesday before
Thanksgiving, but there was a long wait to see the neurologist and I was lucky to get my husband, Wayne, in to be seen at all. Meanwhile I didn’t want him to overhear me making the appointment.
I drove home from work, praying Wayne would agree to go. From day to day I never knew what kind of mood he would be in. He’d recently retired after a 39-year career at an international tech company, a job he loved. Retirement had required an adjustment, but to me that didn’t explain what was different about Wayne. Something was off, I was sure. I just couldn’t say what.
At home I found Wayne sitting in the living room. “What’d you do today?” I asked, trying to sound cheerful.
“I filled the tires, like you wanted,” he said.
Filled the tires? I walked out to the car and realized Wayne had meant he’d filled the gas tank. It made sense, as we were driving to see family for Thanksgiving, but the mix-up was the kind of mistake my husband made all too often these days—too many senior moments.
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