ALZHEIMER’S AND ME
They are walking toward me. Elizabeth? No, that’s not right. She is tall. Her long blond hair is partially hidden by a wide-brimmed straw hat. I start an alphabet wheel in my head: Alice, Betty, Carol. And whew, before the wheel completes its circle, it comes to me: Kathleen! That’s it: Kathleen. Now what about him?
I have just a few seconds to remember his name. He’ll soon unlatch the clanging metal door, alerting the dogs inside to raise heads and wag tails in anticipation of a chase.
Kathleen’s partner is smiling. He’ll soon greet me with an “Elaine, good morning!”
I can’t ask him again. I know it’s something short, tough, current. Josh, Chad? Then, just in time: “Lucas, Kathleen!” I wave, just a bit too eagerly. Like a relative signaling family members arriving on an ocean liner.
We’re at the neighborhood dog park. My rescue dog, Doris, and I visit there four times a day. I’m friendly. Because I’m old, I’m not embarrassed to approach other owners with chitchat. Soon enough, I learn their names, their places of origin, their occupations. The last detail allows me to flip through my mental file box and retrieve what I’ve recently read about their field. My interview begins.
So, when memory falters, as in the case of Kathleen and Lucas, I forgive myself and blame the lapse on the sheer number of young people I’ve met in this place. But recently, with daily reminders of Alzheimer’s treading on my heels, I’m not sanguine. I worry that every buried name is a step on the path to disease.
The dog! What is the name of the small bulldog that belongs to Lucas and Kathleen?
In less than a month, I’ll celebrate my 85th birthday. This is a poorly wrapped gift. Proportion of Americans 85 or older with Alzheimer’s disease: 33 percent. The number only increases with age.
Can I remain in the twothirds who live free of the disease? Alas, “free” seems inappropriate. Free for today. But what about tomorrow?
If only my occasional forgetfulness were confined to the dog park, I could be mollified. But in my apartment, every surface contains a reporter’s notebook with a pen pal nearby. Send a Zoom link to book club members. Reserve a lane for your 5:15 swim. Call Ruth.
I’ve touted my reporter’s notebook scheme to others to remind ourselves of intended tasks. But now I recall an older relative whose apartment was festooned with notes. His handwriting became illegible over time, likely ruined by his crumbling brain. He eventually succumbed to the illness - the notes a testament to his helplessness.
What’s the dog’s name? I know it has something to do with his size, his girth.
At home, I don’t use the alphabet wheel to spur my memory. Pay attention, I tell myself. Don’t get distracted. You came into the kitchen for something. What was it? Never mind; just move on. It will come to you. Fortunately, it usually does. But how can I stop these distractions from crowding in like concertgoers pushing for better spots?
Some forgetfulness causes no risk, while some poses a danger not only to myself but also to others in my high-rise. I recently emptied a pot of pasta into a colander and returned the shells to the stovetop. I mixed in tiny meatballs and cheese, intending the stillwarm
With daily reminders of Alzheimer’s treading on my heels, I worry that every forgotten name is a step on the path to disease.
pot to handle melting. As an amateur cook, I was proud of my simple recipe. Then I returned to my paused TV show.
There was already a magnetized note urging me to turn off the oven, spurred by the last time I left it on after reheating a pizza. Alas, my note said nothing about the electric stovetop. It was the smell of charcoaled pasta that caused me to jump from the TV to the pot.
Am I declining like my older relative with his scribbled reminders? Or am I being responsible and proactive, like a new parent latching cupboards from a toddler’s fingers?
A good friend and former physician, the recipient of my worries, asked, “Did you write the reminders?” When I answered “yes,” she smiled. “You don’t have anything to worry about,” she said. “When others do the posting, then it’s time to worry.”
Napoleon! The dog belonging to Kathleen and Lucas is named Napoleon!
After Doris frolics with friends, and I prattle with other dog parents, I wave goodbye and head for the gate. My dog’s tail is up; I am smiling. Memory intact for the morning. Grateful.