There was something I wanted to write about. Not two minutes ago I was thinking of it. Actually, there were two things: music and this other thing. Not two minutes ago, just before I sat down at the desk. Now all I remember is "music." But that wasn't the real thing; that was just a back-up, and I'd rather write about the other thing, if I could remember it.
For the most part I am accepting of this age-related memory problem. I've learned to compensate in so many ways. For example, I make interminable lists of the tiniest things I need to do each day—that's if I want to get anything done. (Some days I don't care.) But otherwise, once I have made the bed, answered email, and thought about the day's meals—once all that is done, in my mind I am totally free, with nothing on the agenda. Free to read all day if I want. So if the orchids want to be watered or the laundry wants to make it into the washing machine or a particular email wants to reach its target—then I'd better have a list.
That's one compensatory method. Another, for different circumstances, is the reciting of a song or rhythmic pattern when I go from one floor of the house to another for a particular errand. As I head to the basement I chant: "clothes in the DRYer, can of tomAtoes, clothes in the DRYer, can of tomAtoes." If I fail to establish this before I head down the steps, then I find myself standing in the basement at a loss. This happened just yesterday, in fact. I stood between the pantry doorway and the washing machine and wondered why on earth I had come to the basement. I stood for a full minute, brain spinning, before I could recall that the purpose for this basement trip was to find a new sponge to lay out with the cleaning supplies for my house-cleaning help that morning. And it DID come to me.
The third technique I use is to swallow my pride and rely on DinoVino WineScribe. This man has a mind like a steel trap (mine is, and has been for years, a steel sieve). His memory for dates is phenomenal. Among our friends he is the uncontested arbiter of arcane information, much of which (baseball stats, wine characteristics, and grape varieties) is well beyond me even if I weren't experiencing age-related memory problems. We all, but I especially, place a heavy burden on him because he is so reliable. Lately he has once or twice failed to live up to the expectations that he has inadvertently created over the years. If I think I had a hard time giving up my expectations of myself, I can only imagine how difficult it will be for him. For the present, because he is six years younger than I, he still serves as the custodian of our family memories since 1978.
Oh yes. Feelings. I'm supposed to reveal (all good authors do this) how I feel about losing so much of the cognition that I have always taken for granted. Well, here's the thing: I feel relieved. By letting go of my lifetime of high expectations in this regard, it is much easier to accept who I am beneath the mask.
And the umpire's shout of "PLAY BALL!" signals the start of this whole new ballgame.
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