It’s A Slog
I’ve been worried since about last summer about- A lot of stuff. Things were hitting me about a year ago that signaled big changes in my life, how I went about my day and how I felt about whatever. I won’t say it came on me hard because much of it was somewhat liberating, if – sometimes – in a bittersweet way. I’m juggling a shit ton of physical issues, for those of you unfamiliar with me… Some emotional ones, too. This isn’t going into “Oh, poor pitiful me” territory, so no need to groan. All-in-all, I think I’m doing rather well, even with a few worsening facets I’m more optimistic about than otherwise, as I no longer regard my time on this rock as a failed experiment that’s slid into its last hurrah. A lot of transitory stuff, I feel – even what’s not that, so much. Anyhow, as the middle of last summer approached, I began to come to terms with a lot of shit that’d bugged me for decades, deciding – finally – that the time had come to wrap it up, the worrying on it and the concern for whatever may or may not follow. “What happens, happens,” I reasoned, and started a process that lasted into that September. I accepted my age. I’m okay with aging as it feels like a second chance at youth in some weird way, I guess is the best way for me to put it. With being eternally single, as my poor health, appearance, my finances- The entirety of my persona… All that kinda nixes a proper environment to start a good relationship – or even a bad one. And I’m fine with this, as the trade-off is the freedom one is granted in solitude. Though it would be nice to be able to turn to someone who’s been through a lot of the same times I’d lived through, someone I could confide in, someone who’d have my back through difficulty. I always bring up going to a doctor’s appointment and seeing an elderly couple in the waiting room, one there to reassure the other, I’d like to believe. Thing is, I don’t wanna lay that shit on anyone, weigh their life down for my sake. Nope, not my thing. And there’s faded friendships, acquaintances, far-flung relatives with whom ties have come unbound. “Nothing’s forever,” I observed, as I told myself it was okay to acknowledge and accept it that their time in my life, mine in theirs, had come to and end. I was okay with this, as well, thinking it best to shift my focus to those who actually wish to be in my life and to have me in theirs. Some of those old friendships weren’t that-
I lost my train of thought. “The tuna salad’s ready,” my sister Amy called from the kitchen, so I meandered off and left it somewhere back there. I was gonna bring us to this area, anyway, eventually, to my driftiness and frequent absent-mindedness and- It’s here where I have trouble. That other stuff? It’s part of the progression of time and- Yeah. Lapses of memory have been with me for years, troubling-
“Here’s these, Gogo…” my great-niece Jazmin announced upon entering my room, holding out a pencil sharpener and a fine-point Sharpie I’d lent her, the other night. Turning to acknowledge her, whatever was in my head before immediately vacated. That’s where I’m at and have been since the late Twenty-Teens, when I’d expressed concern about the memory lapses to my doctor.
I confided in her that my mother had, then, recently been diagnosed with dementia and, “I’m worried, because I’ll be speaking with someone and, without warning, forget words, terms, names – everything’s and anything’s in danger of me forgetting it,” I told her.
She nodded. “You don’t think that, maybe, it’s because of all the prescription meds you’re on?” she wondered of me. “Several of them will do that to you.” She asked me if I won’t eventually recall whatever it was that had momentarily escaped me, and I nodded. I’m still on most of those medications. Some have been traded out for new ones, but many will affect one’s short-term memory and I will, indeed, remember most everything I was trying to recall but couldn’t, it coming back to me sometimes hours later and in the strangest of moments. “Also,” she continued, “if it was dementia, you’d likely not be asking me about it.”
It made sense. Or I’d wanted it to.
The memory lapses are the worst, but coming in a close “second” is a waning dreamlust that continues to stop my ass cold when I realize my aspirations no longer matter. No one should be robbed of their dreams, nor should anyone rob themselves of them, which is what I feel is happening. Nothing jacks me up, anymore, and whatever once propelled me towards progression no longer does, so I’m left bitterly fighting that and its accompanying lethargy. I’d once daydreamed of being a published writer, but I’m here, forcing words into my keyboard with little finesse under a scrambled mind, segueing from one topic to another, hoping everything ends up strung well-enough together, once I’ve pulled these typing finger back from their keys and called what I’m working on at the moment “done”. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, but now it feels like tapdancing across a tightrope without a net to catch me when I fall and I will fall. I just try to ignore the fact of it.
“You were talking about last summer,” my therapist reminded me.
Oh, yes. What’s the word, what’s the word… The term for an important moment in one’s life or era of it. I’ll not fret about forgetting; I’ll incorporate my fogginess into the tale I’m spinning and “viola!” it becomes a facet of the tale.
I reach over and grab my bottle of S. Pellegrino, but it’s empty. I guess I’m done with writing for the afternoon.
