The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali, 1931
The little paper bag with the prescription in it was found in an Ann Taylor shopping bag sitting on the floor of our bedroom after an hour and a half doing this: checking my purse and under the bed, putting on rubber gloves and going through the garbage in the garage (Someone who lives here has been buying lingerie! Someone else has been eating McFlurries!), pulling the sofa and the chair forward in the TV room, inhaling dust bunnies from under the beds, and rehearsing what to tell the pharmacist. (Hello! What do I do if I’ve lost my prescription? It was for synthroid, an entirely nonaddictive medication of no interest to drug addicts. I just picked it up yesterday. Yes, i know my insurance won’t cover it. Of course I remember my address!).
My wallet was found two weeks ago in the pocket of my work knapsack after six hours of doing this: retracing my steps to the drapery store past a Subway sandwich shop, turning the house upside down, checking the pockets of everything I’ve ever worn, going to the bank, and panicking at the teller’s printout of latest purchases, including a purchase at a Subway Shop within the last hour. Not my order. Forgetting that my husband buys a Subway sandwich most days for lunch, I immediately cancelled everything.
I’m not even going to mention that I phoned the bank after I got home, convinced that in the last ten minutes I’d lost the new debit card they just gave me.
Time to take the online Alzheimer’s test again. I love taking this test. It’s the only part of life that makes me feel I have a good memory.