Brain arteriosclerosis means the brain’s feeder pipes have grown stiff and thick from years of wear. The once-flexible walls turn leathery, so blood pulses through like water hammering in old copper plumbing. Symptoms sneak in slowly, then pile up.

Morning fog is the earliest tip-off. You wake up clear-headed, but by mid-morning it feels like someone lowered a hazy curtain. Names of coworkers hover just out of reach, and you find yourself re-reading the same email three times.

Mood flashes come next. A small traffic jam triggers road rage that shocks you, or a sad movie leaves you tearful for hours. Family calls you “on edge,” but the swings feel chemical, not chosen.

Sleep turns upside-down. You nod off watching the news, snap awake at 2 a.m. with racing thoughts, then doze again at dawn. The clock becomes a roulette wheel you can’t control.

Balance drifts sideways. Walking to the mailbox, you veer a little right and blame the slope of the driveway. Inside, you touch walls you never noticed before, like a ship using bumpers in a narrow lock.

Hearing your own head becomes normal. Lying quiet, you notice a rhythmic whoosh matching your pulse, as if a tiny stereo is playing behind your eyes. Raising your head two pillows sometimes lowers the volume.

Memory starts to skip like a scratched CD. You recount last week’s party but leave out the guest of honor, or store milk in the pantry and cereal in the fridge. The gaps feel small, but they widen month by month.