REMEMBER THIS: how memories are made

Our memories are what make us who we are, so it’s understandably unnerving when we sense our memory faltering. In her latest book, author and neuroscientist Lisa Genova delves into memory, exploring the complex function for all its beauty and idiosyncrasies.

As both a neuroscientist and the author of Still Alice, I’ve been talking to audiences around the world about Alzheimer’s and memory for over a decade. Without exception, after every speech, people wait for me in the lobby or corner me in the Ladies Room to express their personal concerns about memory and forgetting. Many have a parent, grandparent, or spouse who had or has dementia. They’ve witnessed the devastation and the heartache caused by profound memory loss. When these folks can’t remember their Netflix password or the name of that movie starring Tina Fey, they worry that these failures might be early signs that they too are succumbing to inevitable disease. Our fears around forgetting aren’t only about a dread of aging or Alzheimer’s, they’re also about losing any of our memory’s capacity and capability. Because memory is so central to our functioning and identity, if you start becoming forgetful, if you begin forgetting words and start losing keys and glasses and your phone, the fear is this: I might lose myself. And that’s justifiably terrifying.

It’s important for us to realize that while most of us paint forgetting as our mortal adversary, it isn’t always an obstacle to overcome. Effective remembering often requires forgetting. And just because memory sometimes fails doesn’t mean it’s in any way broken. While admittedly frustrating, forgetting is a normal part of being human. By understanding how memory functions, we can take these inconvenient gaffes in stride. We can also learn to prevent episodes of forgetting by eliminating or artfully navigating around common errors and bad assumptions.

When I explain to folks why they forget names, where they parked their car, and whether they already took their vitamin today, when I describe how memory is created and retrieved and why we forget – not as a result of disease pathology but because of the way our brains have evolved – I hear them exhale. Their faces look relieved and grateful, changed by this information. They leave me unafraid, holding a new relationship with their memory. They are empowered.

Once we understand memory and become familiar with how it functions, its incredible strengths and maddening weaknesses, its natural vulnerabilities and potential superpowers, we can both vastly improve our ability to remember and feel less rattled when we inevitably forget. We can set educated expectations for our memory and create a better relationship with it. We don’t have to fear it anymore. And that can be life changing. Because while memory is king, it’s also a bit of a dunce. There is a reason you remember the words to every Beatles song and forget most of your own life; or you remember the Hamlet soliloquy you learned in tenth grade, but forget what your husband told you he wanted from the store five minutes ago. We both remember and forget what a penny looks like. Remembering pervades and facilitates everything we do. As does forgetting.

Solomon Shereshevsky, known in neuroscience and psychology texts as S., the Man Who Could Not Forget, had an extraordinary memory. Russian psychologist Alexander Luria tested and retested Solomon’s ability to remember over the course of 30 years. Solomon could memorize massively long lists of numbers or nonsensical information, pages of poetry in foreign languages that he didn’t speak and complex scientific formulas that he didn’t understand. Even more astounding, he could recall these lists in order and without error when Luria retested him years later. Sounds like an amazing superpower, yes? But Solomon’s extraordinary ability to remember astonishing volumes of information came at a price. He felt burdened by excessive and often irrelevant information and had enormous difficulty filtering, prioritizing, and forgetting what he didn’t want or need. His inability to forget was at times a profound handicap in daily life.

We tend to villainize forgetting. But forgetting isn’t always a regrettable sign of aging, a pathological symptom of dementia, a shameful failure, a maladaptive problem to solve, or even accidental. Remembering the details of what happened yesterday today isn’t always beneficial. Sometimes, we want to forget what we know.

Forgetting is actually quite important and helps us function every day in all kinds of ways. It’s advantageous for us to get rid of any unnecessary, irrelevant, interfering, or even painful memories that can potentially distract us, cause us to make mistakes, or feel miserable. Forgetting one thing is sometimes necessary so that we can pay attention to and remember another, and so in this way, forgetting can actually facilitate better memory. We also tend to think of forgetting as our default setting. Unless you actively do something to remember some piece of information, your brain will automatically forget it. Easily.

And if you’re over 50, too easily. We forget without trying. We forget

what that woman just said because we didn’t pay enough attention. We forget to pick up the dry cleaning because we didn’t create strong enough relevant cues. We can’t recall what we learned about the Industrial Revolution in eleventh grade because too much time has elapsed without periodic recall.

We are the powerless, passive victims of forgetting. It happens to us. But forgetting can also be artful – active, on purpose, motivated, targeted, and desirable. For example, I travel a lot when I’m on a book or speaking tour and can be in a different city every night. Being able to rattle off the last four hotel room numbers I stayed in might be an impressive feat, but it’s actually better for me to have forgotten last night’s room number when I find myself in the elevator at the next hotel. If every room number I’ve stayed in for the past four nights enters my consciousness when I get in that elevator, I’ll likely get confused and not know which button to push. I want to forget each hotel room number as soon as I check out. An

“If we want to remember, we first have to pay attention.”

intelligent memory system not only remembers information, it actively forgets whatever is no longer useful.

Not long ago I drove to Kendall Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and parked my car in a garage. I checked the time and knew I had to hurry. I was scheduled to give a talk a couple of blocks away in a few minutes. Normally I take a photo of the floor number or row letter as a record of my car’s location whenever I park in a garage, but worried I was going to be late, I raced out of there as fast as I could in heels without taking a photo of my space, and without consciously registering where I parked. I arrived on time, gave my talk, answered questions, and signed books. The whole affair probably took an hour and a half. When I returned to the garage, I walked to where I thought I’d parked, but my car wasn’t there.

I paced up and down ramps, becoming increasingly frustrated and hopeless as it remained missing. I walked from level to level, my feet screaming in my heels, sure I’d parked on the fourth floor, but maybe it was the third or the fifth. And did I park in section A, B, or C? No idea. I couldn’t remember. I knew I was in the right garage, but that’s all I had confidence in. I kept pressing the button on my car remote, trying not to panic, praying I’d hear a BEEP BEEP or see a flash of lights in response. Nothing. I was just about to report my car stolen when I stumbled upon it exactly where I left it in 4B. Relieved, embarrassed, and sweating, I reflexively wanted to blame that whole maddening experience on my memory, but the neuroscientist in me knew better. The reason I couldn’t find my car wasn’t because I have a horrible memory, amnesia, dementia, or Alzheimer’s. This wasn’t a case of memory failure at all. Temporarily losing my car had absolutely nothing

to do with my memory. I couldn’t find my car because I never paid attention to where I parked it in the first place.

Above all else, we need to notice what is going on in order for it to be remembered. Noticing requires two things: perception (seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling) and attention. Let’s say you’re standing in front of the glitzy and colossal Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center in New York City. You take in the visual information

– the shape, the size, the colours of the lights – through receptors called rods and cones in the retinas of your eyes. This information is converted into signals that travel to your visual cortex at the back of your brain where the image is processed and actually seen. It can then be further processed in other brain regions for recognition, meaning, comparison, emotion, and opinion. But unless you add your attention to seeing this Christmas tree, the activated neurons will not be linked, and a memory will not be formed. You won’t even remember seeing it. Your memory isn’t a video camera, recording a constant stream of every sight and sound you’re exposed to. You can only capture and retain what you pay attention to. And since you can’t pay attention to everything, you’ll be able to remember some aspects of what is happening before you but not others.

Think back to that first evening of summer on the beach. You remember the s’mores, the Lady Gaga song, and that Suzie Q was stung by a jellyfish. But surely there was more to see, hear, taste, and feel. Another parent might remember hot dogs, beer, mosquitoes, and a seal sighting. You remember none of that. Your memories of the same evening are vastly different because of what you did and didn’t pay attention to.

Think about the vast amount of information your senses are exposed to in any day. If you’re awake for 16 hours, your senses are open for business without a break for 57,600 seconds. That’s a lot of data. But you simply can’t and won’t remember most of what was available to your eyes, ears, nose, and brain today.

The number one reason for forgetting what she just said, his name, and where you put your phone is lack of attention. You can’t later remember what is right in front of you if you don’t pay attention to it. For example, if you don’t pay attention to where you put your glasses, you can’t form a memory of where you put them. Later, when you’re crazed, unable to find them, you’re not actually experiencing a memory failure. You haven’t forgotten anything because that memory was never formed. Your glasses are missing due to a lack of attention (They’re usually on my head!). So if we want to remember something, we first have to pay attention to it.

Unfortunately, this isn’t so simple. Even if we didn’t live in such a highly distractible time, paying attention isn’t easy for our brains. I frequently drive from Boston to Cape Cod. En route I cross the Sagamore Bridge, a four-lane steel-arch bridge that spans the Cape Cod canal. At some point I will suddenly wonder, “Did I already go over the bridge?” Then I’ll notice something to indicate I have. Yet I have NO memory of having driven over that enormous bridge.

I might’ve been distracted by a conversation or some daydream, my attention averted. More likely, I didn’t pay attention to driving over the bridge because that detail wasn’t particularly important to me. It was a routine, habitual experience. I’ve driven over that bridge hundreds of times. As with brushing your teeth, taking a shower, getting dressed, your morning coffee and your commute – because these experiences are essentially the same day-to-day, we don’t pay attention to them. And because we don’t pay attention to them, we don’t remember them. We tend to pay attention to – and therefore remember – what we find interesting, meaningful, new, surprising, significant, emotional, and consequential. Our brains capture those details. We ignore, and therefore forget, the rest. AWW