I am less inclined to go plowing through previous posts than I am to merely repeat myself...especially since my faulty brain apparently does that with disturbing frequency whilst chatting with friends. I want to know that I have already said what I am saying, but it is devastating to be told that I am repeating myself when I have absolutely no memory of the first (or second or third) time the tale was voiced.

So, whether I have written here or only in the pages of my mind, I wanted to speak about elevators...at least the one in my office building.

When I was commuting to my job of a couple of years ago, I had to cross this bridge that genuinely disturbed me. I mean, there I was, day after day, sitting in a heavy SUV being bounced up and down as cars traveling in the opposite direction shook the bridge. Given the fact that they were not traveling all that fast, I was most disbelieving in the stability of the bridge's construction. B's husband G, an engineer, could talk for hours about why the gaps in the bridge were important and why the fact that it moved actually meant that it was strong. For me, the facts and my fears just didn't compute.

Well, there is this elevator at my new office building that I find most discomforting.

It is small and creaks and jerks and rumbles its way between floors. The inspection certificate on display dates back to 2000, but I am loathe to actually ask to see the current one because of the eggshells upon which I am currently walking at work. But, oh, how I long to know that despite the decrepit states it seems to be in that it is actually deemed safe by those who know the warning signs of soon-to-break-elevators.

Now you might think that some of my fear of that elevator secretly stems from what I shall write next, but I can only ask that you understand that the two are completely separate.

I hate using the blasted thing. Given the fact that the HVAC system is still faulty and has not yet been working all day for any amount of time, using the stairs in the slightly oppressive heat of the hallways and stairwells is probably not a good idea. Couple that with my sometimes uncooperative legs, the elevator is most likely the best choice for me.

However, I am loathe to step inside.

I am loathe to step inside because I struggle to figure out which button I need to push. Is it 1 or 2 (we will not go into the problems when I have to go to the 4th floor)? What floor am I going to this time? Will 1 get me there? Or 2?

I step inside and then, far more times that I would care to admit, I try to figure out which button I need to push.

The other day, I was caught standing in the elevator with the doors shut. Someone pushed the button to call the elevator and found me still inside. The woman was someone I did not know, but I fear being caught by someone at my job. I fear having to explain why I do not know how to get to my office or to my car.

B came to my rescue a few years ago with my contact dilemma. Even though I have been wearing contacts since I was 11 years old, I began struggling to put them in my eyes each morning. I would put them in, think they were inside out, and remove them. Some mornings, I would repeat this process so many times that my eyes would be bloodshot and my temper frayed. Finally, B came up with an association to help me remember which way was right side out. I live inside VA. When I look inside my contacts while holding them on my fingertip, I should be able to read "VA."

After learning about my elevator button struggle, B tried to help again. Here is her memory association idea: "One" has 3 letters in it as does "car," so when I want to go to my car, I press 1. "Office" has two "f;s" in it, so when I want to go to my office, I press 2.

I have been to work just two times since she came up with this idea, so the jury is still out on whether it will work as well as her first one. I hope it does. However, I am trying to focus on the real gift of her idea.

She learned about the button trouble and immediately tried to work out a solution to my problem. She didn't tease me. She didn't tell me that we all forget at times, especially as we get older. She understood how very scared I get when I have yet another cognitive problem stemming from this blasted disease.

Most of the time, B doesn't really know what to say to me when I spill out how much I am hurting or frustrated or afraid. She listens even when it is most uncomfortable to her. She never tells me I need to get over it or move on or stop wallowing. She understands how awful it must be if I am actually reaching out to another person. She doesn't know what to say and is uncomfortable and yet listens anyway. She listens and then she tries to help in such a way that preserves my independence and dignity.

This is how she says "I love you" to me.

I wish I were better at focusing on her message rather than on my cognitive decline. Writing this, I have tears streaming down my face for the loss I feel and the fears of how much I am changing of late. I smile at the thought of B's effort, at the love she gifts me so very freely. I smile, but I am still crying.

Is it 1 or is it 2?