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Honey McKerry suppressed the urge to firmly lower the cast-iron skillet directly onto her husband's slightly balding noggin. Instead she blew out the breath she'd been holding during her attempt to count to ten, then slowly turned away, reminding herself for the hundredth time, CT can't help it. She set the heavy pan back on the stove and opened the upper cabinet, removing the overly familiar jars of peanut butter and honey. Jif Extra Crunchy and McKerry's homegrown honey—CT's favorite go—to sandwich, well, unless he changed his mind midstream, like he'd done just now.

"You're sure you don't want eggs, then?" She carefully placed the pair of freshly laid brown eggs back into the recycled egg carton. Her Plymouth Rock hens had really started producing when spring warmed up, but like so many things in her life since CT's illness had progressed, caring for chickens had become too much, so she'd given them to Marta and Anna next door. She repeated herself. "Sure you don't want eggs, CT?"

"No, no. My legs are okay," he replied confidently.

"I said eggs." She peered into his face to make sure he understood her. "Not legs." Although it wasn't a leap to speak of legs since his bothered him some. When he ignored her, she put her last carton of homegrown eggs back in the fridge. Maybe she'd fry up a couple for herself later, if she got hungry.

She should've known when CT demanded scrambled eggs for breakfast, he would forget or change his mind. And by the time he'd dressed and made his way to the kitchen, a task that took nearly an hour, their morning egg conversation had floated off to the twilight zone.

"Oh, yeah." He nodded as he picked up the newspaper. "Eggs are good."

Sometimes she felt as confused as him. Maybe it was catching. She studied him before speaking. "So you don't want the peanut butter sandwich after all?"

"Yeah. Eggs and a sandwich. Like I said." He slid his chair toward the kitchen table, then opened the paper and pretended to read. She knew he was just looking at photos, maybe trying to make out a few headlines. But it had been almost a year since reading for retention became too much for him. For some reason she liked that he kept up the pretense. Maybe it made them both feel better...or at least gave her a moment of peace, knowing he was occupied.

She got the eggs back out. "You must be pretty hungry, CT."

He patted his flat stomach. "Oh, yeah. Ravished."

"Okay then." She smiled at his misused word. It just went with the territory. Eighteen months had passed since his diagnosis. She still remembered CT's response when the neurologist explained that he had FTD.

"Am I going to deliver flowers?" he'd asked with a twinkle in his dark brown eyes. They'd all laughed at his wit, but underneath Honey's cheery veneer, a cold chill had swept through her. She'd heard of FTD, and it wasn't good.

Oh, she wasn't blindsided by the diagnosis. Clearly, something had been going on for some time. But at the beginning of the testing, she'd never expected anything this life-altering and serious. At first the professionals blamed CT's forgetfulness on his hearing loss, then perhaps sleep apnea, and finally, after dealing with both issues, the doctors had suggested hydrocephalus, which was treatable. But after six months of acquiring new hearing aids, a frustrating month trying a CPAP machine, and various doctors and specialists and tests, CT's brain scans revealed frontotemporal dementia—or disorder, her preferred substitute for the D word. "Just like Bruce Willis," she would sometimes say to lighten things up. After all, CT had been a big Die Hard fan. But unfortunately, most of the time, the poor guy didn't really get it.

"Did you feed the cat?" she asked absently as she cracked an egg into the pan.

"No. Don't need a hat."

She rolled her eyes and picked up another egg. "Got your hearing aids in, CT?"

He reached up to check an ear, then sheepishly shook his head before returning to his faux reading. She knew she should nag him to go fetch them instead of simply getting them herself. While it was good for him to do what he could while he could, it was just so much quicker to do things for him.