‘The Threshold Effect’ has a hold on me — and The Hubby
The Hubby calls it, quite appropriately, “The Threshold Effect.” It happens when one of us leaves a room and enters another, intent on communicating a thought or request. In the time it takes to go under doorways, however, we invariably forget what we want to say. This happens to me at least once a week, especially if I’ve got to walk from my office on one side of the house to the garage, where The Hubby is usually working on his lathe.
That short jaunt requires I go under three thresholds, which apparently is enough to short-circuit whatever pressing message I’m eager to share.
“Hold on, hold on,” I tell him, right index finger pointing upward as if it could connect me to some memory network in the heavens. “It’ll come to me.”
He waits. I scour my brain. Nothing. The message proves elusive — at least until I’ve sheepishly returned to my desk. Then…then: Oh, yeah, I know what I wanted to tell him. I race across the house repeating the words aloud so nothing escapes my porous memory.
This forgetfulness has become such an issue that we now joke about electromagnetic waves in our household’s doorways. These waves, we believe, transfer the data from our brains to…well, I’m not sure where those thoughts might be stored. The point is, my misfiring synapses usually coincide with a slew of deadlines, poor sleep and overscheduling. Did I mention that, on occasion, I’m certain my overheated brain is throwing off sparks, trying hard to recalibrate?
I used to blame age for worsening memory. Cognitive decline provided a ready excuse, but I no longer subscribe to that explanation. For one, I remain sharp on important matters, especially those to do with writing and finances, and I can remember in amazing detail certain moments in my life, both the good and the horrible.
What’s more, I was disabused of that age-related excuse after speaking to younger friends who complained about brain fog and trouble focusing.
“My concentration is shot,” the wife lamented.
She ticked off all the things she could once remember but that have now been relegated to an app on her smartphone.
Oh, honey, I wanted to say, you’re not even 60.
Our friends blame their memory issues on the pandemic. A lot of people do, including scientists who study our cognitive prowess. For most of us, these past two years have blurred together, marked only by the occasional tragedy or celebration. Stress and uncertainty, as well as the uniformity of our days, scrambled our brains. Until early this year, when most of us were avoiding public places and large social gatherings, it was tricky to distinguish between a Thursday and a Sunday. Because of that sameness, I had never been more grateful for our twice-a-week trash pickups. I even cherished the uncompromising deadlines of this column.
But we’re now long past the lockdown phase, and I continue to forget what I’m going to say in the few moments that it takes to travel a short distance. I forget, too, a scheduled Zoom call and a family birthday, even the essential item for an old recipe I’ve made thousands of times. I used to accuse technology of infantilizing our brain. After all, why remember an appointment when my smartphone can alert me? But I’ve abandoned that idea too.
Instead, I’ve vowed to work on my memory by trying different tricks. During this upcoming harried holiday season, for example, I intend to limit commitments. I will make sure I’m living “in the moment,” not preoccupied with what happened the day before or what I need to do tomorrow. I will not multitask. Nor will I scrimp on sleep to check off items on my To-Do list.
Sounds like a good plan, no? I’ll let you know how it goes — if I remember.
Ana Veciana-Suarez writes about family and social issues. Email her at avecianasuarez@gmail.com or visit her website anavecianasuarez.com. Follow @AnaVeciana.