He takes tablets. Lots of them, medically prescribed, essential. To keep track of them, we get a thing called a Webster pack from the pharmacy each week. They are all sorted into days of the week and times of day. At first he used to remember to take them; gradually it has become my job to remember for him. It's part of my routine by now.
Morning and evening I release the required tablets from their package, put them into a special little bowl kept just for that, add a glass of water and present them to him. If he's having breakfast in bed I stand by him to assist; if he's eating at the table, bowl and glass go there and if need be I remind him they are there.
This morning he was in the kitchen — he was cooking our porridge, which he can still manage and likes to do. Instead of sitting down to take his tablets, he grabbed the bowl, took it to the sink, and poured himself a glass of water. It was only when I looked round that I realised he had put the tablets in the glass, poured the water in on top of them and was now trying to imbibe the lot.
After the first gasp, I shut my trap and let him get on with it. It took a few tries. I'll never know if he realised his mistake at any point. But, oh well, he took his tablets and that's what matters.