Butchblog

I recall when my father was having memory/cognition problems and we took him to have an evaluation. The doctor first asked him some simple questions: What day is today? What year? Who is the current president? Dad was stumped on all of them. But when he was asked who the president was in 1935, he quickly responded  that it was FDR and went on to mention the depression years and the stock market crash. He seemed pleased with himself. The examining doc told us that his situation was not unusual. Short term memory goes first, but fragments of the long-gone past linger on. Dad was later diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and died relatively early with complications stemming from the disease.

            I’ve now lived almost 10 years longer than my dad, but still I worry about cognitive issues. I forget names frequently and often struggle to come up with the right descriptive word or answer. Each year it gets a little worse, though I’m still functioning, I believe, on a relatively high level. I’m a whiz at “Spelling Bee” and “Words With Friends”. Not so much any longer at “Jeopardy”. Even when I know the answer, I can’t get it out before one of the contestants does. They should have a separate Jeopardy Tournament for octogenarians where the contestants have five minutes to come up with the answer.

            Some days I find myself desperately trying to bring back certain years, days, moments in time that I know were important, but now are only hazy—or completely disappeared. The memories I mourn for the most are centered around the years when my daughters were young. So many of those precious moments I can no longer recall with any clarity, only a vague sense of their importance and a staggering sense of loss.

            I do have photos of those clouded years (not enough) and often find myself perusing my albums, trying as I turn the plastic sleeves, to recall the details surrounding those lovely children as they played on the beach, celebrated birthdays, sat on my lap as I read them stories. In one of those pictures, I stand with my arm around my younger daughter who has just competed in a cross country meet and is clearly upset. I am consoling her. This photo makes me sad, but also reminds me of the bond we had (and still have). It’s authentic. We weren’t posing, didn’t know the picture was even being taken. That’s the sort of candid photograph that speaks to me. I don’t much care about the ones where everybody is smiling for the camera. Some photos do lie, you know. Not everybody is always happy.

            I don’t think there is a solution for my problem with fading memory; it’s a fact of older life. I do believe that my generation, for the most part, is doing better than our parents. We tend to stay more active, eat better, don’t smoke, often have stronger social networks, and are more willing to speak about the issues around aging. Of course, we still end up in the same place, only get there slower—but with more recognition of the journey. I’m going down the slide, sure, but enjoying the ride all the way.