My daughter Emelyn and I are visiting all cozy at my little round kitchen table catching up and eating her favorite soup, creamy chicken and rice. Outside is a cold dark dusk, but inside we chatter along warmly.
“I’m reading this book about memory right now. Let’s see, it’s called. . .” I cannot believe I have a brain burp on a book about memory. “I can’t remember.” The instant the word, “remember” is out of my mouth I laugh at myself. “Oh Jeez. The book is Remember by Lisa Genova. She wrote Still Alice.”
I watch my daughter closely to see if she smiles at the irony that I can’t remember a book called, Remember. Will her expression hint of concern that this is a sign of early onset Alzheimer’s Disease? Her face is kindness itself and shows enough amusement that I continue laughing at my blip. Half of my brain continues telling her what I am learning. The other half is back in the eighties remembering my own grandmother’s first signs of dementia.
Our whole family is sitting around plump and full of Christmas dinner. We’re playing the dictionary game, and when it comes her turn to give a definition, she gets so tickled at herself; she has no idea how to play or what to do next. We can’t get her to stop laughing to make her understand the game. Her fit is contagious, and soon we are all laughing along and helping her with her turn.
Back at my house in the present, Emelyn and I move from the kitchen into the living room where she is bombarded by my dog. Finn won’t leave her alone and keeps his nose pressed against her hoodie pocket despite her continued explanation, “There are no treats in there.” He doesn’t give up all night. I’m so embarrassed to have such a badly behaved dog.
It takes me back to when Mother had her little Pomeranian, Darcy, and she was first showing signs of cognitive struggles. Mom and Darcy sat where Emie and Finn are now, with the dog in Mom’s lap the whole visit. She could hardly stand to part with her. “I don’t see why y’all won’t let me take her to church. She would just sit right in my lap the whole time like she is now.”
Emie and I try ignoring my present snuffling dog, naughty but adorable as he is, and talk about the latest with her work, her boyfriend, what we’ve been watching. We touch on our hopes and dreams, and exchange prayer requests. I wonder, how long I will keep this pleasant memory stored. Lisa Genova’s book explains the different types of memories, and how each time we recall one, we’re actually creating a “memory 2.0” and it is overwritten with slight changes. She tells how faulty our memories are, and how forgetting is really advantageous. Still, I yearn to never forget.
I’ve met two people with amazing powers of memory. One was Dr. Neil Prior, a professor at Harding University, who never forgot anyone’s name. Each time my parents would return to his Bible class at the College Church, he would greet them, recalling their relevant data, and asking about other people he had met from their hometown, Vernon, Alabama.
The other person was a subject in Lisa Genova’s book. In one chapter she describes her discussions with the actress Marilu Henner, famed for her role as Elaine O’Connor Nardo in the sitcom Taxi. My husband, Dan and I were in Manhattan in August of 2018 and wandered down a side street trying to navigate our way to our next destination. We saw a small crowd waiting for autographs from Marilu outside the stage door of “Getting the Band Back Together.” When the crowd thinned, I asked if she would mind taking a selfie with me. She was pure graciousness and had Dan take a proper photo of us.
According to Genova, Marilu remembers every day of her life from waking moment to falling back asleep exactly as it occurred. I’ve wanted to find her again and see the powers of her perfect episodic memory in action. Will my silvering hair and extra wrinkles give her a challenge? Or will she say, “Ah yes, you had been to the Downton Abbey Exhibit on August 18. It was sunny and warm out that day, and you waited patiently to get your selfie with me, until all the theater goers got their autographs.”
What I would not do, if I were to see Marilu again, would be to prompt her with, “Do you remember me?” This is a dreadful question, especially for someone whose memory is in decline. I see how frustrating it is for my mother, when we have a few moments of quiet conversation in her single room at the convalescent center, to be interrupted by a staff member saying, “Well look who’s come to see you! Do you remember who this is?”
It's time for Emelyn to go home to her own two puppy-dogs now. We hug at the door and say goodnight. I can’t fathom this dearest of people to me being slowly erased by amyloid plaques. I pray her face will always be crystal clear in my visual cortex. In the meantime, I’m thankful she remembers me, and sends me sweet little messages like the one I get when she is safely home again. “I love you so much and am so glad you’re MY mama!”
Your Turn: Do you know anyone whose memory you envy?
