He saw me frequently at first, and ran so many tests I knew he wasn't leaving anything up to chance. He asked questions about my childhood. He adjusted medications. He explained why listening to audio books would help reconnect the synapses that weren't connecting in the communication center of the brain. I felt like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, singing, "If I Only Had a Brain."
Today the only question I missed was, "What day of the week is it?" I sure thought it was Wednesday, but it was only Tuesday. Being sick probably had something to do with that, but as I told him, since we retired, the day of the week doesn't mean much to me anymore. My knitting needles don't care what day it is. Neither do my books or camera. And when I write, it doesn't matter at all what day it is. If I had to miss something, that would be the least problematic. I can get the day of the week from my watch.
Now I don't have to go back for a year, unless I start having seizures again. He'll call in a few days to let me know the results of the blood test. It determines whether or not my medication levels are still correct. He takes good care of me. And it's nice to know that my memory hasn't gotten worse from a year ago. Some days it seems like it has. I suppose I just forgot how much I didn't remember then.