Every once in a while, I have a small worry that Dear Old Dad is becoming forgetful. At almost 95 that is to be expected – his forgetfulness, rather than my worry.
Yesterday, in the rush of getting ready to have friends over for lunch, I was telling my husband about a recent episode of confusion, when Dad had forgotten arrangements we had made. I was telling the story while moving about the kitchen and dining room. As I opened the door to the sideboard, still recounting the story and my worry, I found myself staring into the cupboard and asking “what was I supposed to be looking for in here?”. I stopped talking and looked up at my husband’s raised eyebrows.
I guess I should be more worried that I can forget a thought from two minutes ago rather than a 95 year old forgetting a conversation from a week ago.