It’s started: I’m having “senior moments”, a polite way of saying I’m losing it. So far, I have shrugged off the “it” I’m losing. What’s gone is gone. I carry on, but it’s not that easy for my husband. My memory lapses worry him.
Tom came home one day and found me where he had left me – staring vacantly at the TV. It was showing a program starring my favorite actor, but I couldn’t recall his name, even if my AARP membership depended on it. Nor could I remember how I’d gotten to season three. All I can say is thank goodness for plot recaps.
Tom turned the TV off and surveyed the living room. I wiped buttery fingers on my bathrobe and followed his eyes. A trail of popcorn kernels speckled the floor.
“You could have dealt with that mess,” he said. “Have you forgotten you have a brand-new vacuum?”
I had spent the day in a fog, but I wasn’t that forgetful. Or was I? I pondered Tom’s question and that’s when it hit me. Sudden clarity, then … poof. I felt my brain short circuit and a synapse sizzle and die.
When the moment passed, Tom was looking at me expectantly. How could I explain? Something in me had changed. I remembered the vacuum cleaner, but in a poof of fried synapse, I couldn’t remember how to use it or why I would. Aging brains do that – kill some memories, lock down others.
I remembered Tom buying the vacuum cleaner. He had researched the purchase as carefully as a man choosing a sister-wife. His requirements: high HEPA ratings, dual-height brushes, and a large capacity tank. And, like a sister-wife, Tom wanted one that was lightweight, easy to push around, and had strong suction. He preferred a cordless model, although he was willing to go either way.
I had perfect recall of all that detail, yet, somewhere in the recesses of my brain, my ability to operate a vacuum cleaner had been erased. This was a senior moment I couldn’t hide. I had to break the news to Tom.
“I felt it happen,” I told him. “It was like a pop somewhere between my frontal cortex and basil ganglia. All I know is that I don’t know how to vacuum. That memory is lost forever, irretrievably gone.”
At first, Tom was in denial. He was certain this was the kind of senior moment that would pass. But I knew otherwise. Despite all the hours I spend playing neurologist-endorsed games on my phone, I didn’t have the neuroplasticity needed to retrain my brain. At 65, I was never going to vacuum again.
“You can’t control what faculties you lose,” I told my husband. “At least I didn’t forget anything important. I remember how much I love you.”
Still, Tom railed at the hand I’d been dealt even though it’s a common brain quirk in women my age. (Fourteen out of fifteen of my friends have the same memory deficit. The other has a live-in maid.)
I was not alarmed because there was an easy workaround for my lost skill, and, if my brain hadn’t been misfiring, I would have thought of it sooner: I returned the vacuum cleaner Tom had bought and ordered a robo-vacuum. It could be programmed to avoid future cleaning lapses caused by my memory glitches. Our lives were back on track, or so I thought.
Soon after, Tom noticed other behavior that concerned him. He took it upon himself to fill in my memory gaps. He really was my rock! When I left a dirty dish on the counter, he’d be quick to remind me.
“Dirty dishes go in the dishwasher.”
He may have told me that before, but then another poof and I wasn’t sure.
I asked, “What’s a dishwasher?”
Tom hid his concern for me with exasperation. He pointed at a stainless-steel box with lots of buttons. “That’s a dishwasher.”
Then with the detail of a lifelong mansplainer, he demonstrated the “right way” to use it. Proper dish placement, where to put the soap, which cycle to choose and, this part was apparently very important, pushing the start button.
“When you don’t turn it on, dishes don’t get cleaned.”
The way Tom said that made me think it was a step someone frequently forgot. The next night, I asked for another demo. I wanted to be sure I remembered proper dishwasher procedure. After a week, Tom could tell I was struggling to stay focused. It might have been the way I kept flipping through a magazine during yet another of his dishwasher demos.
“I’ve been through this a hundred times,” he said.
In one week? I looked at him, baffled. “My memory must be getting worse. I only remember seven.”
To his credit, Tom didn’t give up on me. He was determined I retain this skill. To make his dishwasher protocol simple to remember, he came up with a handy four-letter memory aid. He had me repeat it after him.
“DSCS – for Dishes-Soap-Cycle-Start.”
With that tip to guide me, Tom urged me to give it a try. I was touched by his confidence and agreed. I cleared the table, then carefully placed the dirty dishes in the refrigerator. I threw in a Cascade capsule and, remembering the importance of starting it, pushed the icemaker button.
The next day, Tom bought me Prevagen and took on full-time dish duty.
It can’t be easy caring for a spouse with impaired memory, but Tom has been steadfast. He constantly provides me with extra memory support for what gerontologists call “activities of daily living”. One day I found a Post-it note on my mirror that read, “I’m out of clothes. Do the wash TODAY!”
I immediately did a load. Then before another poof could make me forget, I took his clothes straight from the washer and dropped the soggy pile on his side of the bed. I put a new note on top with a gentle reminder to help his memory. Tom had forgotten to mention whether he wanted his clothes dried. If he ever did, I wanted him to have an easy laundry code to use: WDF for Wash-Dry-Fold. But I guess I got confused again, because I wrote WTF. Tom seemed to think that meant something entirely different.
It broke my heart to see my husband stressed about my worsening condition. I suspect he feared I’d forget him. I haven’t. I know Tom inside and out. The man I married values a sparkling house and homecooked meals. To ease his worry, one day I promised that, when he got home, I’d serve him a favorite family meal. If I’d taken my Prevagen, I might have known he’d expect spaghetti. If he understood how my brain works, he would have expected the bucket I handed him. “Favorite Family Meal” is printed on it in large red letters. On the plus side, I remembered to order coleslaw.
Unfortunately, my lapses didn’t end with cooking. Other synapses soon flared out – Poof! Poof! Poof! – and I was robbed of more skills: dusting, grocery shopping, changing sheets. The only household appliance I could still operate was the TV remote. Tom relinquished it to me, knowing I needed some sense of control as my world dramatically changed.
Eventually, I had to admit my memory deficits were affecting our quality of life and taking a toll on Tom. Interventions were needed. Thankfully, technology and home-based services help seniors enjoy our golden years. I now have a phone with giant buttons to speed-dial my favorite restaurants, a “senior companion” who cleans our house weekly, and an in-home massage therapist who looks just like the actor I like. I must say, the mind-body connection really works. I never forget my appointments with George Clooney.
I thought these steps would quell Tom’s worries. Instead, his focus shifted from household chores to my wardrobe management. He called the kids.
“Your mom just bought another pair of black pants. She already has fifteen in the closet.”
Now, I’m worried about his cognition. I have sixteen. Mistakes like that are a warning sign of dementia. So is agitation. I’ve decided to be proactive. I’m changing the PIN on our bank account. I’d hate to see Tom get confused or agitated while tallying the cost of my “senior” care. As his wife, it’s my duty to protect him.
At our wedding we vowed to love each other “for as long as we both shall live”. And, despite the challenges of aging, I know Tom will keep that vow – as long as he doesn’t find out about the PIN. As for me, I’ll always be honored to be his wife, for better or worse, for richer or … Poof! Wait, I don’t remember taking a poverty vow. And I’m not a nun. Just ask George Clooney.
Polly Baughman is on point and off-color – a granny with a keyboard she’s not afraid to use. Her writing has appeared in Gannett and Tribune newspapers, The Memorist, and won first place in the Arizona Authors Association Literary Contest. She lives in Scottsdale, Arizona where she spends her time aging and complaining, often simultaneously.
Image via Unsplash (edited)