Early this morning Cheryl got up to visit the bathroom as is often the case with older men and women. Storage capacity diminishes with age. As she looked at the clock I bought for her a while back to help with her orientation in space time – it has more information than just the time – she became confused about what the information meant to her.

Sunday? What does that mean? That’s the thought that passed through her head. She later described this to me. Puzzling through why she couldn’t seem to understand the significance of the word.

She needs (wants) to find an explanation for all the little deteriorations that occur. It’s hard to sort out those that belong to the Parkinson’s and those that are merely “gray hair”.

I guess it’s hard for me too. I tend to think that everything is somehow related to the Parkinson’s. And everything is in a way. A certain amount of independence is given up when one decides that it is unsafe to drive a car. Cheryl has decided that. But, now, because of that decision she has added a concern, a worry, an anxiety, that it is an inconvenience to me. She is right of course. My interests are not the same as hers but I have adjusted – I think. But what I have been unable to do with great success is dissuade her from her being concerned about “putting me out”. I have also been unsuccessful at giving me a bit of warning when she schedules my time so that I can plan a bit and rearrange things as necessary.

Sometimes this causes undue tension between us. Generally speaking Parkinson’s sucks.