Pressed Between the Pages of My Mind

I've been thinking about the weird stuff I remember.  I think I remember distant things more acutely than the average bear.  I wonder if there is a connection.  Any neurologists reading this?

In first grade, one day Mrs. Read was out and we had a substitute teacher.  She wore a white dress with black polka dots and a black patent leather belt.  She had the tiniest waist ever.

Mrs. Munson lived in an apartment in the back of Dr. Kibbe's house.  She always caught me on May Day when I left a basket of violets on her doorstep and invited me in for tea.

I could draw a floor plan for Dr. Jones' apartment.  Her dog, a Boston Terrier, was named Molly.   I visited her now and then when I was in wee grades.

At age 15, sitting in the Woodbine Theatre with Mark, I became acutely aware that my elbow was rough and dry, and silently vowed to always lotion my elbows.

I was on a ferris wheel with some stranger downtown Carthage for the Bicentennial and the wheel stopped.  I saw my father on the ground talking to someone as he waited for me and I wanted to call to him, but I didn't want that strange boy to think I was a baby.  So instead of calling, "Papa,"  I called "Dad" and sort of tried to make it sound like "Dan."

Mom told me we didn't use Ivory Soap because in our water it would turn milky.

These are not significant, life-changing things.  I didn't even remember to always lotion my elbows.  I still don't.  These memories - and thousands more - are just snips of film that can be played in HD any ol' time.  So why can't I remember how long I worked at the place I last worked?  I know I couldn't find the office building now.  I remember some things from when I first worked there, but not the latter part.  I used to drive all over the upstate to jails and talk with prisoners and jailers and attorneys and judges and cops.  I couldn't find those jails now.  I couldn't even tell you what towns they were in.

Of course, I remember some significant things.  I remember a bad guy jumping across a table at me.  I remember being locked in a cell with a prisoner and no guard anywhere near.  I remember telling the "powers that be" not to let a certain man out.  But they did.  It was very bad.  I just don't remember the bulk.  I only remember the names of a few people with whom I worked and that's because I'm in touch with them.   Someone recently asked me how long it's been since I worked there and how long I worked there.  I really don't know.  I just don't.  Time is one of those things that my brain has not seen fit to hold onto well.

My neurologist says that I won't regain any of the memories I've lost but that the meds should help slow down losing more.  I don't routinely just believe what I'm told without questioning it.  So I'm thinking there must be things I can do (besides taking these pills) that will help.

I play Words with Friends.  I sing things I need to remember.  I constantly tell myself not to panic, it will be okay.  I have GPS.   I have a cell phone.  I have friends.  I savor memories, that is I purposefully remember things I can in great detail.  I remember how Dr. Jones' apartment smelled and how her voice sounded.  I make plans.  I make myself go places.  I try to learn new things.

But things take so much time and energy now.  Even writing this blog, which I think is important and which I want to do, takes so ding dang much of me.  I have to check everything.  I'm sure misspelled words are getting through as well as punctuation errors.  I felt so silly when I had to check whether the word was waist or waste.  I feel stupid when things like that happen and I know I'm not stupid.  I just forget the weirdest things.  And the things I remember are odd, too. They often seem so unimportant, but I'm very grateful for them.

And even when I press the "publish" button, I'm a little afraid that I've written gibberish, or that I'm repeating myself.  I don't re-read the last five posts before I write.  I probably should, but that would be stressful.  I recognize my writing style, but I don't remember writing things.

But you know what?  As scary and sad as this whole thing is for the most  part, it's also a bit intriguing.  I'm amazed at how a brain works - and how it doesn't.  I would like for the progression of this memory thief to be slow.  Perhaps recording my experience will be helpful to brain scientists everywhere.  Hey, maybe my grandkids will become neurologists and cure this thing.

Damned near anything could happen.  And I'm grateful.