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There's something I meant to tell you . . .

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ILLUSTRATED BY HEATHER MCKINNON

SINCE BECOMING a grandfather, I realized I've forgotten more stuff than I remember. At least I think I've forgotten a lot of stuff. But if your memory is going, you can't be sure about all the stuff you've forgotten.

I've been a grandfather since the end of April, and I think I have been forgetting stuff for a lot longer than that. But because I'm forgetting stuff on a regular basis, I can't say for sure when I started . . . Well, you know what I'm going to say: forgetting stuff!

My kids will tell anyone who cares to listen that their father has been forgetting stuff ever since they were born. Probably even before they were born because their mother, the Truly Unpleasant Mrs. Johnston, will occasionally say their father would forget his head if it wasn't screwed onto his shoulders. I can safely say that I have never left my head behind after I have been to someone's house for a visit.

But when you start noticing that you are forgetting stuff, you start getting concerned about what is behind this forgetting business. Because I've made my living as a newspaper reporter for more than 30 years, and have reported too many stories of bad things happening to people, the first thing that pops into my skull is that whatever is causing my forgetfulness is bad for me.

I figure it is either a brain tumor blocking off the memory circuits or some disease that wipes out not only your memory but everything else in your head. I started to think maybe I had Alzheimer's. That's the disease where at the start you forget small things, like birthdays and phone numbers, and then you start forgetting even who you are.

I told Mrs. Johnston I was worried because I was forgetting birthdays and phone numbers. Mrs. Johnston snorted and said, "You don't have Alzheimer's! You've never been able to remember anyone's birthday. You're lucky if you can remember your own birthday. What's our house phone number?" I proudly repeated it in that sing-songy voice little kids use when doing the alphabet.

"OK, now what's my cell-phone number?" Mrs. Johnston asked, looking at me like I think a homicide cop would look at a murder suspect. I started saying "425 . . . " I knew these were the first three numbers for her cell phone because they are the area code for our house and I knew Mrs. Johnston lived in the same area code as me.

But I paused after the "425" to take a quick look at the wall behind her head. Mrs. Johnston's cell-phone number was written on a sheet of paper there along with all the other numbers of people I might want to call. Unfortunately, Mrs. Johnston caught my wandering eye and grabbed me by the chin. "No you don't, buddy boy," she said, turning my face away from the chart.

"425 . . . duh," I said. Mrs. Johnston made a snorting noise that was her way of saying, "See."

Lately I've been carrying a small notebook where I write down the things I have to do during the day. I may write down stuff like: "Dentist 11 a.m.; go to Bartell's; write column about forgetting stuff." I used to be able to remember that kind of stuff without writing things down. But lately I have to write the chore or forget I have to do it. Sometimes I think of something I need to do but spend too much time doing something else like reading the newspaper. By the time I get around to writing the thing down, I've forgotten what I wanted to write.

I just remember I wanted to write something that I wanted to remember, only I couldn't remember what it was.

When I told a friend that I was afraid I was losing my mind, she laughed and told me she was having the same problems. "It's just part of getting older," she said reassuringly.

Getting older? Good Lord, there is only one cure for that.

Steve Johnston is a retired Seattle Times reporter. His e-mail address is stevejonst@aol.com. Heather McKinnon is a Times news artist.