FUTHER TREATMENT

I remember less and less and I increasingly remember what I do remember incorrectly.  I’m sure it’s a function of aging and probably of further, perhaps inevitable deterioration.  I’d rather that were not the case but, for the time being, will simply make the best of it until there are signs that it’s no longer amusing.   Those signs can and will continue to be manifest in my wife’s reaction to my accumulating missteps or my failures to step at all.  That was the case last night during dinner. 

Immediately after the last therapeutic, eminently enjoyable, and relaxing session with my provider several weeks ago, I resolved to set up further sessions on-line as soon as I got home and although I was home within only a few minutes, I’d by then forgotten and was only thinking about lunch.  On several subsequent occasions, while driving or working on something, talking to someone on Main Street or perhaps using the bathroom, during the weeks that followed, I remembered over and over that I had to set up those appointments if I was ever going to find myself again in delightful prone repose next to my practitioner’s woodstove while she gently (mostly) manipulated my energy pathways into, or at least toward, compliance.   Such were my memory deficiencies that on each of those occasions, I had forgotten by the time I returned home or otherwise had access to on-line opportunities.   Sometimes I’d be aware that I’d come to this juncture with a purpose but simply couldn’t remember what it was.  Other times I simply moved on with whatever opportunities presented themselves, completely unaware that I was here (or there) for a reason.  And on other occasions I’d find myself aware that I’d arrived at this juncture because something needed to be done but otherwise clueless.

Last night after an enjoyable dinner and after my offer to clean up had been gently rejected, I sat down next to the wood stove with The New Yorker and Sun Magazine.  Suddenly and inexplicably, finding myself mid-way through Talk of the Town, I remembered that I had to set up those further appointments.  I grabbed my cell phone and googled my provider.  Nothing.  Over and over I tried, checked my spelling and tried again.  Nothing!  I’d used the site before and couldn’t imagine that it was no longer alive and well, why I was unsuccessful.  My sweetheart was doing dishes.  I was reluctant to ask for help because her expressions, increasingly incredulous as I ask more and more often about things I could once be relied upon to remember, or that she simply couldn’t imagine I’d forgotten, were becoming a little off-putting.  Still, here I was, having been inexplicably reminded that I needed an appointment and mindful that if I didn’t do it now, I would certainly forget again and quickly.

“Elaine, why can’t I find vinalhavensudoku on line?  What am I doing wrong?”

“I didn’t even know there was such a thing but, given your fondness for Sudoku, it certainly sounds like a place for you.  How did you find out about its web site?”

Now it was me who was incredulous.  She undertook the treatment as often as I did.  Why is she now asking what it is?

Then, what is so often becoming increasingly obvious to her became thus again.  She turned to me and barely disguising her incredulity, asked, “Sweetie, are you talking about Shiatsu, about vinalhavenshiatsu?