The first line said, “Memory Care Assessment — Family Consultation.” That was the single word in the title: assessment. My son had scheduled an appointment with a facility that evaluated seniors for assisted living and memory care, and the notes underneath were even worse. They listed concerns about forgetfulness, managing finances, driving safety, and “possible early cognitive decline.” I sat there staring at my phone because nobody had discussed any of this with me. I wasn’t getting lost. I paid my own bills. I still volunteered twice a week and drove myself everywhere.
When my son came by that weekend, I showed him the calendar entry and asked him to explain it. He looked embarrassed immediately. The truth came out in about five minutes. A few months earlier I’d forgotten my purse at a grocery store, mixed up the dates for a church luncheon, and accidentally paid the electric bill twice. To me those were ordinary mistakes. To him, after watching his grandfather struggle with dementia years ago, they looked like warning signs. He admitted he’d panicked and started researching memory clinics before ever talking to me.
I was hurt, and I told him so. What bothered me wasn’t the appointment itself. It was finding out through a calendar notification like I was some problem he was trying to solve behind closed doors. He apologized over and over, and for once I could see he wasn’t being controlling or greedy or anything like that. He was scared. He’d already lost his father, and the possibility of losing me frightened him more than he’d wanted to admit.
We kept the appointment, but we went together. The doctor spent nearly two hours with me and ended up telling my son that occasional forgetfulness wasn’t unusual for someone my age and that nothing suggested dementia. My son looked like he’d been carrying a fifty-pound weight that finally slid off his shoulders. Afterward we stopped at a little diner, split a slice of apple pie, and sat by the window watching people hurry past while neither of us looked at a calendar once.I’m Fifty-Eight, And After My Husband Passed I Gave My Son Power Of Attorney “Just In Case.”