We had a family powwow over Christmas to discuss my memory. Along with other issues relating to my wife’s and my advancing years. And, believe you me, this getting old stuff isn’t for sissies.

Our son, Byron, who works at Google, had driven home from Omaha; we don’t get to see him face-to-face very often. Our two daughters live here in Denver with their families; they and their little ankle biters are frequent fliers at our house. Or at least they were before COVID.

The kids kicked things off by raising the possibility of our leaving our two story house and moving into a ranch style home. That didn’t even get to the two minute warning with my wife. In fact, Marleen sacked that idea with about 90 seconds to spare. And no timeouts allowed.

In The Crosshairs

So, with leaving our home entirely off the table, all eyes turned my way. And, specifically, the way of my memory. Which was fine. I know that sometimes my memory’s good. And sometimes it’s terrible. And not headed in the right direction. I’ve written about it before here.

For example. A few days after our confab, I drove downtown to Saint Joseph’s Hospital to pick up our daughter, Jocelyn. We’re excited that she’s expecting her third child next summer. There was a little hiccup with her pregnancy that required minor surgery; everything turned out fine.

I don’t know how familiar you are with the area around St Joe’s, but in my opinion it’s where directionally challenged old folks like me go to die. Figuratively. One way streets with no rhyme nor reason. Which dump you into expensive parking lots without warning. Five or even six way intersections.

So, did I turn up a bit late for my daughter’s appointment? You betcha. But at least I eventually turned up. And, like it or not, I’m going to give myself some credit for that achievement.

“A Continuing Conversation”

Like my wife, our daughter, Lauren, is a nurse. Her leadoff comment about my memory at the family meeting? “I think it should be a continuing conversation.”

“I have no argument with that,” I responded, “but the issue of my memory is a mystery to me. On the one hand,” I went on, “I seem to gave a good grasp of things that happened years ago. And sometimes even decades. Especially some of the things I’ve read. But ask me about what I did yesterday and I’m often out to sea.”

“Yes, Dad,” offered Lauren, “long and short term memory can be very different. But it goes beyond just a matter of inconvenience or frustration. It can also be a safety issue. But, there might be some medications that could help.”

So, what do you do when you get a response like that? Of course: snoop around on the internet.

And what do you get when you put “medications for memory loss” in the search bar? An answer. But nothing much I wanted to hear:

“The Food and Drug Administration has approved two types of medications — cholinesterase inhibitors and memantine — to treat the cognitive symptoms (memory loss, confusion, and problems with thinking and reasoning) of Alzheimer’s disease.

As Alzheimer’s progresses, brain cells die and connections among cells are lost, causing cognitive symptoms to worsen. While current medications cannot stop the damage Alzheimer’s causes to brain cells, they may help lessen or stabilize symptoms for a limited time by affecting certain chemicals involved in carrying messages among the brain’s nerve cells. Doctors sometimes prescribe both types of medications together.”

So. There you have it. The Big “A”. The condition whose full name, like Lord Voldemort’s, “must not be named.”

“Too Much House”

Next? Byron’s turn on the Hot Seat.

He reported that the last time all three kids had been at the family condo in the mountains, our advancing years had been the subject of a “late night, four hour discussion.”

What did he touch on with us? Actually, more like what didn’t he mention? My memory. Our finances. The size of our home. The daunting prospect of moving when our backs are up against the wall and we’ve run out of other choices. My increasingly parlous physical and mental condition. The possibility of my stumbling and crashing down our home’s two flights of stairs sometime. Check. Check. And re-check.

“But, in the end,” he said, looking to first to his mother and then to me, “it’s what important to you guys. Is it this house? Or is it spending more time with your grandkids? Sure,” he said, “maybe you can do both. But it’s no cinch.”

Sense And Sensibility

Our youngest, Jocelyn, is a sweetheart. Her husband, Aaron, brings home the bacon; she takes care of the kids. They live in a neighborhood that used to be working class, with boxy, ’50’s houses that used to be priced for working people whose families made them burst at the seams. But now the same modest ’50’s era homes are saddled with the immodest prices that a city like Denver can command since it’s been discovered and deemed “hot.”

Jocelyn remained mute and listened for much of the discussion. But the dam finally broke. “It makes me so sad,” she said, putting her face in her hands, the tears beginning to come, her shoulders heaving. “It’s so hard to see you guys have to make decisions like these. So hard for us kids to see you getting older.”

I looked away. How could I be feeling pride? A smile, immediately suppressed, rippled over my face. Pride that this tender hearted young woman felt my distress and mortality so deeply? With Lady Macbeth, what else could I think of myself but, “Out, damned spot!”

Writer’s Block

As I was writing this post, I was beset by one of the worst cases of writer’s block that I’ve ever had to contend with. Day after day, I procrastinated. Could hardly even poke my head in Byron’s old bedroom, now converted to my writing hidey hole, and endure the baleful stare of the blank computer monitor. Raid the refrigerator. Walk around the block. Hash it over with a pastor at church. TV. Anything but write.

And what, finally, worked? Don’t ask me. If I knew, do you think I would have been stuck in what felt like an infinite loop as long as I was? Sort of like how I’d felt being lost in that maze of streets around St. Joe’s hospital.

But the more interesting question is: why was it so bad this time? Isn’t it obvious? How fired up would you be to write about your deteriorating mental and, even, physical state?

But what can I cling to? This. Reading a couple of chapters from Charlotte’s Web to my granddaughter Lucy this afternoon. The chapter about Wilbur the pig wallowing in the manure. And Charlotte spelling “Terrific” in her web to save the pig from the slaughterhouse.

I’ll cling to moments like that as long as God’s tender mercies permit.