It takes two: Memory Loss
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It Takes Two: Memory Loss By Maren Smith My husband grumbled as he rummaged through the kitchen drawers in search of his sunglasses. The oldies station blared on the radio. “It takes two baby, me and you.” That could be our song. It does take two of us…ever since we turned forty a couple of years ago. “Have you seen my black sunglasses?” he asked. Like Miss Clio, the TV psychic, I recalled an image. “I’m seeing a black mesh case with a zipper. I was cleaning.” “The cleaning service was coming-did you clean up so they wouldn’t think we were slobs, maybe move them somewhere?” “Hmmm...I see me opening something.” He dashed to his car to check the console, but returned empty handed. “Keep thinking. You say you opened something,” he coaxed. “I see me putting them in a drawer, a wooden drawer.” My husband took the stairs, two at a time and returned with the glasses. He grabbed my hands and I joined him in a celebratory dip to the music. “They were in my end table,” he said. “Right where I put them.” Exhausted, I sat down at the kitchen counter to ponder what had happened to our collective memories. We can remember all 50 state capitals, even the capital of North Dakota, but can’t remember where we put the keys to the Honda ten minutes ago. We can never leave each other, that’s for sure. It takes our two minds to remember one thing. Maybe I should join a convent-just for a little while. A few years ago, Time magazine published the results of a study on aging, lifestyle, and Alzheimer’s disease called The Nun Study. Research conducted in Minnesota on nearly 700 elderly Sisters of Notre Dame nuns concluded that the nuns who still had sharp memories practiced certain habits-religiously. Their healthy regimen included daily exercise, no smoking, no drinking, and eight glasses of water a day. Mental workouts included regular games of Scrabble, Bridge, and crossword puzzles. The nuns read two newspapers each day, one in a foreign language, and the only TV show they ever watched was “Jeopardy”. You’d never catch those gals misplacing a set of rosary beads. We subscribe to two papers, but we’re not too keen on reading them in any language but English and frankly, celibacy is not an option for us. We lose names, too. “Could you send a sympathy card to Brian’s wife, Janie. Her mom passed away,” my husband asked. “That’s so sad, but it’s not Janie. It is a “J” name. Julie or Judy?” We manage to come up with Janice and do a high-five over our mutual victory. The kids observe this pathetic scene and shake their heads in disbelief. Their parents are old and senile. Digging through my purse in one last futile search for an elusive sales receipt (a cracked picture frame I hoped to return), I wondered: are we destined for a premature trip to the “home”? With each lost item, are my husband and I one step closer to the wheelchair parade, the only 40-somethings in danger of being dropped off at the senior center by our frustrated teenagers? I guess it’s never too late for cerebral exercise. If those old nuns can do it, I can, too. I’ll just make a standing date with Mr. Trebek. Curled up on the couch, he’ll ask me intriguing questions that I’ll answer back, in the form of a question. I’ll swallow extra handfuls of gingko tablets and drink eight- no make it ten- glasses of water. I’ll read The Chronicle and work the crossword puzzle. “The boxes on this crossword sure have gotten tiny,” I mutter, searching for a pen. My husband, partner in the daily treasure hunt, deftly retrieves my reading glasses from beneath the couch cushions, handing them to me along with sixty-eight cents in loose change without taking his eyes off the evening news. But there are benefits to losing your memory, I guess. At my 20th high school reunion the cheerleaders were still artificially blonde and perky, but they weren't as plastic as I once thought. And, I have completely forgiven my first boyfriend for dumping me (for no good reason, I might add). There’s nothing like memory loss for easing the pain of a broken heart. The selection of movies at Blockbuster doubles for people like us. If you can't remember if you've seen it, just rent it again! It's a comforting experience, like visiting an old friend. The kids have accused me of over reacting, asking too many questions, and enforcing unreasonable curfews. Blissfully, my selective memory has allowed me to forget most of the awful things our teenagers have said to me over the years. I sincerely hope my own mother has, too. About the author: Maren Smith is a "Boy Mom" living in Danville, California. She keeps busy with two active teenage sons and husband, while teaching middle school, and writing. She bikes, hikes, reads, travels, laughs a lot, and always takes time to daydream. She has been published in the San Francisco Chronicle. © siliconmom
