It’s funny. I’m learning on this journey with my husband’s rare dementia that it really is the little things that send you over the top. Maybe you know the feeling.

I had to put air in the car’s tires the other day. My husband, God bless him, noticed that one of the tires looked a little flat. That had always been his thing - looking after the cars. But it’s been more than a year since he’s even pumped the gas for me - something he once did so regularly, I took it for granted. Now, when we’re out, and I realize we’re getting low on fuel, he sits in the passenger side while I do the work, because he doesn’t remember how. That much became clear the last time he attempted to do it.

For a long time afterwards, when we pulled up to the pumps, he would say, “Do you want me to do it?”

“It’s ok, hon,” I’d answer cheerily. “I’ve got it. I don’t mind.” Pretending I don’t mind is one way I hope to preserve his dignity.

But it never occurred to me to check the tires occasionally. It will occur to me from now on.

When we pulled up to the free air pump at the gas station, it was minus 30 degrees Celsius outside. I rooted around in the glove box for the air pressure gauge that I knew would be there (silently blessing my dad, who taught me how to use one more than 40 years ago when I bought my first car), shoved my hands into my mitts, pulled up the hood on my parka, and got out of the car.

Crouching down near the driver’s side front tire, I had to take my mitts off to get the little black rubber cap untwisted from the tire. My gauge registered that the tire was 15 psi; it was supposed to be 33! But I managed to get it filled without difficulty. I actually felt just the teensiest bit proud of myself as I moved around the car, filling the next two tires, which were also low, registering 22 and 25 psi respectively.

But the last tire was just not cooperating. For some reason, no matter how many times I held the hose nozzle against the little valve in what seemed like a good seal, it just wasn’t inflating, but remained stubbornly at 18 psi. The wind was howling, the snow was blowing, my fingers were freezing, and I started to feel well and truly sorry for myself. I could feel the tears brimming and starting to freeze at the edges of my eyes.

Finally, I walked over to the fellow manning the self-serve section of the pumps and asked if he would be willing to help. He was well-bundled and kindly agreed.

When he saw my husband sitting in the car, I’m sure he wondered what the heck his problem was. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My husband has dementia.”

By the time we got back home, my pity party was in full swing.

I know there are people everywhere who have lost partners to disease, dementia, death, or divorce, who have struggled with taking on the little things once taken care of so capably by their better halves. It helps to remember I’m not alone.