Time is Like a Fickle Lover

She just wasn't herself. How long had she been so forgetful, he wondered? A year? Two years? Longer? Between the two of them, she had always been the one with the photographic memory and instant recall, but at some point during their forty years together, she had changed. Now he was the one saying, "Remember when?" "No," she would answer. "I don't recall that at all."

"You make me feel broken," she said, tears welling up in her eyes. They were standing in the kitchen where she had only minutes before put her car keys in the refrigerator and a stick of butter in the wicker basket by the door. He watched her do it, but he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Oh, my goodness! Are you serious!? Tell me you didn't just do that?" She was stunned by his aggression. "What? she asked, but instead of telling her what she'd done, he took her by the hand and led her like a child over to the wicker basket. "Butter in the basket? Really! Is that where it goes?" Then, still holding her hand, he walked her over to the refrigerator and instructed her to open it. When she did, he once again admonished her. "And keys in the frig?!" 

He just wasn't himself. How long had he been so intolerant with her, she wondered? A year? Two years? Longer? Between the two of them, he had always been the even-keeled one. "Nothing rattles him," she would say.  "He uses thoughtful rationale with every challenge in life and then handles it with calm resolve." But at some point during the latter part of their four decades together, he had changed.  Now she was the one saying, "It's just part of aging; there's nothing to worry about." "Yes," he would say. "Oh, but I'm afraid that there is."

"You're kidding me, right? Don't you remember?! You told me that last week and the week before that?!" His irritation stopped her in mid sentence. She remembered she had told the story before, she just couldn't recall to whom. She was doing that a lot lately--repeating her stories--but most of her friends and family would just say, "Oh, yes. You mentioned that before," in a respectful manner. So why was the one person in her life who should be understanding and supportive critical of every  mental hiccup? Why was he punishing her for something that was out of her control? Were his intolerance and hurtful reactions underpinned by fear? But fear of what? Her looming dementia and how it would negatively impact his life? She thought about what her future would be like living with someone who reacted with frustration and ridicule instead of kindness and love every time her brain didn't perform to his expectations. She had read somewhere--not that she could remember where--that if you misplace your car keys, there is no reason for concern; however, if you're holding your car keys but have no idea what they are used for...well...let's just say that could be a whole different story.

Later...a whole different story

He just wasn't himself. How long had he been like this? Two years? Three years? Longer? Oh, what does it matter, anyway? Time is like a fickle lover. With its passing, you never know what surprises tomorrow will bring.

"Have you seen my car keys, Sweetheart?" she said to her husband of forty-seven years, who was standing at the kitchen sink washing twelve of his favorite ping pong balls.

"Are those the pointy, shinny things that go 'Pop, Pop, Clankety, Clank, Clank' in that micro-thingy?"

"Yes, dear."

"Are keys those things that won't float in the toilet?"

"Yes, dear."

"Are keys those things I use to scratch my initials in the table?"

"Yes, dear."

"Are keys what I use to wash my ping pong balls?"

"Yes, dear. Do you know where they are?"

"Nope! Haven't seen'em."