My Marvelous Memory
Our dialysis story — chapter 20
I think about memory often these days.
When Ben fell last year, his brain bleed robbed him of words — not memories, not stories, but specific words. While in the neurological ICU, if you asked him where he was — as in What is this building? — he would reply hotel. He knew hotel was the wrong answer but couldn’t find the word hospital.
The neurologist called Ben’s type of memory malfunction memory holes. After being discharged, Ben could remember nine of his ten doctors. He couldn’t remember his endocrinologist — the doctor who manages his diabetes, a doctor he’s had for 15 years. She fell into one of his memory holes. But once he saw her again, a few weeks after his discharge from the hospital, he knew exactly who she was.
Like the physical injuries from his fall, Ben’s memory holes healed over time. By the start of 2023, his memory was back to normal — with the exception of occasional forgetfulness easily attributed to age.
Until . . . late February . . that’s when the low-kidney-function brain fog set in. Since he started dialysis, most of his brain fog has cleared. But not all of it.
He forgets names more often now, which is not uncommon for his age. But two hours after I tell him something before going to work, like where to find the dinner I prepared for him, he’s forgotten what I said and calls me, asking about his evening meal. This doesn’t happen once in a while; it happens two, three, four times a week. So, before I leave, I open the refrigerator and point to the plate of food I prepared for him, but still, two hours later, I get a call at work:
Didn’t you make my dinner? I can’t find anything to eat in the refrigerator.
Hmmm, not only does he not remember, but he can’t see? His plate of food is always on the bottom-left shelf. How can he not see it there? Ladies, do you agree with me that it’s a guy thing? How is it that a woman can open a refrigerator door and immediately see the two bottles of milk in the center of the top shelf, and a man opens the same door and yells:
Are we out of milk? There’s none in the fridge.
Back to Ben . . .
Is it a memory issue or a hearing issue or an attention issue, or a combination of all three? I’m not sure. But we’ve agreed to discuss it with his primary care doctor during his appointment in October.
Or could it be that I am his memory, and he doesn’t feel the need to keep information in his head because he knows I have everything he needs to know sealed and saved in my head? Perhaps, I am his memory, and he’s okay with that.
I have an excellent memory — probably not as good as a decade ago, but still much better than most people’s. I rely more on notes and calendars than I once did, but I guarantee I’ll win memory contests with anyone my age — no, let me revise that, with anyone ten or twenty years younger than me.
A woman I work with once told me the story of why she and her best friend from childhood stopped being friends. It wasn’t a particularly interesting story, nor could I associate it with anything in my life, but I remembered it eight years later when Carol’s childhood friend contacted her.
It was so weird. I know we stopped being friends. I know I was very mad at her, but I couldn’t remember why. Neither could she!
I told her why. I told her the story she told me six years earlier. She looked at me in shock and wonder.
Why would you remember that? That’s part of my life and I don’t remember it!
For eight years, I and five female friends spent a long weekend at a condo on the beach. Our dinners out were a big deal. Six women discussed what they wanted to eat and where to eat it. I remembered every restaurant and every meal — yes, I knew where we ate and what each of us ordered — for eight years. That’s three dinners each weekend for eight years multiplied by six women, for a total of 144 meals that I remembered in detail. I say remembered because I doubt that now, twenty years since the last time I went on one of those beach trips, I can remember all the restaurants and meals but bet I can recall at least half.
I continually wow people with my memory, but the biggest wow was in 1995 when my then-husband and I were visiting my sister, who still lived in the county in Virginia where she and I were raised.
My sister and brother-in-law took us to the Mariner’s Museum in Newport News. Afterward, we discussed where to eat dinner, and my sister said there was a Greek seafood restaurant in the area that she always wanted to try.
The restaurant had just opened for dinner when we pulled into the empty parking lot. The building didn’t look familiar, and as far as I remembered at that moment, I’d never eaten anywhere in the Newport News/Norfolk area.
A male maitre d’ greeted us at the door, suggesting that we eat in one of the back rooms because a large party had reservations for the main dining area. As I looked around, my mind flashed little pictures, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that I couldn’t fit together.
The maitre d’ led us into a spacious dining area beyond which I could see a maze of smaller rooms. We walked past a few tables, and the maitre d’ turned to the left. Suddenly, I knew that there was a large crescent-shaped table around the corner. I could see it clearly in my mind and said to my sister:
Right around this corner is a semi-circle table. We ate there with Aunt Dorothy and her kids.
My sister looked at me like I was nuts.
Aunt Dorothy? What are you talking about? When was she here?
Don’t you remember? After Grandma died, she came with her kids and stayed with us for a week. We ate here.
You’re crazy. I’ve never been here.
My father was from Illinois. After his mother died in 1965, his sister and her three children flew from Chicago to visit us — the one and only time they ever came to Virginia.
The maitre d’, my husband, and my sister’s husband had stopped walking and were staring at us. I asked the maitre d’:
What’s around this corner?
He smiled and led us to a large semi-circle table.
I grinned triumphantly at my sister, pointed to the table, and described where, thirty years ago, each person in our party sat, then said to my sister:
I ordered a seafood sample platter. You ordered spaghetti and meatballs, and we all made fun of you because you were eating Italian food in a Greek seafood restaurant.
My sister scoffed and turned to the maitre d’:
You don’t serve spaghetti and meatballs, do you?
Ah, yes, ma’am, we offer it for our patrons who don’t care for seafood.
I continued:
And you ate Baked Alaska for dessert.
Before anyone could ask, the maite d’ offered:
The Baked Alaska is our most popular dessert.
My sister paused, then said quietly:
I remember the Baked Alaska. None of the rest of it, but I remember the Baked Alaska. The server set it on fire at the table.
My sister looked at me in amazement and said:
How can you possibly remember all of that? It was thirty years ago and you were only eleven years old!
Yes, readers, I have a marvelous memory, which can be a blessing or a curse.
These days, it’s a blessing because I have to remember for both of us.
© Dennett 2023
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