I don’t feel different, but I know that I am. The slightest sad thought makes me cry. I never cried a lot before—not much in movies, not in real life, either. Now I cry if I hear annoyance in Dan’s voice, or if he tells me I’ve had another sugary midnight snack I can’t remember. Sometimes I cry when I’m alone, for no particular reason. They say crying makes you feel better. Not with me. It just makes me sad all over again.

That’s not all I feel more sharply these days. I get angry at Dan—a lot. Usually it’s something he says that I just flare up at. I never used to do that. I never had a temper. Now I do. The worst of it is: I don’t remember, the next morning, why I was angry the night before. I see Dan wake up and give me a look, like: uh-oh, is she still on my case? And for the life of me, I can’t remember what that case was.

Take that Alzheimer’s luncheon. What do I remember of it? A big round table with my friends. Which made me feel really good, like they hadn’t run away from me. I don’t remember going up to speak, and I don’t remember getting emotional, or Dan taking over from me, or me facing the crowd again and telling them what a wonderful husband Dan is. I mean—he is! I know that. But I don’t remember that moment.

I think maybe one reason I don’t remember it is that it went well. It seems like happy memories get blurred and forgotten now. Maybe some little detail will be there. Like I remember talking to a couple of people at that luncheon, but…that’s all.

Ancient memories, many of them at least, are still unclear. The other day I got to see my old friend Nancy Doll. Dan and I had come into Manhattan, and Dan had business to do, so Nancy and I got to spend the day together, just the two of us. I’ve known Nancy since our early modeling days—she was a Wilhelmina model, too. One year we went to Milan on our own and shared a room for weeks at the Grand Hotel Milano. We’d go on shoots almost every day—sometimes together but usually separate jobs—and then dance the night away. There were a lot of handsome rich Italians giving parties at their villas in the hills, and to be honest, we got invited everywhere. Nancy had a sort of hippie look: she liked to wear her Frye boots, even to go out dancing. I wore heels and a lot of clunky jewelry. That was one difference between us. But neither of us gave those handsome Italians what they wanted. It was a different time, an innocent time—for us, at least. We were just having fun—so much fun.

That was what we talked about, the day we spent together: Milan, and Paris, and Vienna, where I actually starred in a movie, not that the movie ever got to the States. But for about six weeks I was a movie star. It was great.

I know we talked about more recent stuff, but I can’t remember much of what Nancy told me. I know she’s back in Wisconsin, where she grew up. I do know that.