If Only We Could Forget to Remember

One of the most perplexing aspects of dementia is the forgetfulness. I am a planner—I can come up with a plan or a system for just about anything. Written to-do lists and reminders have been very helpful for Mom. I use them as well to keep track of a busy family. As long as I can anticipate what it is that Mom won’t remember, I can create a reminder to deal with it. The problem is that I don’t always know what she will forget.

Simple things can drive me crazy. For her recent trip at Christmas, I loaned her a large rolling suitcase. She kept insisting that she had a big suitcase and did not need mine. “This one has wheels Mom. You don’t want to drag that other suitcase through the airport.”

“That’s a good idea,” she said. A few minutes later she would start again, “I have a suitcase, I don’t need this one.” When I showed up early to take her to the airport (somehow I knew that I should), she had all her things packed in her small carry-on bag. The Christmas presents were the only items in the big case. I quickly packed the large bag for her explaining that she would only want one piece of luggage. Then I feared that she wouldn’t recognize the bag when it started circling in the baggage claim area. Another call to my brother with a description of the bag was in order. But what else would she forget?

There are times when I feel like I am trapped within my own little world. My family consumes most of my time, but for the most part, I enjoy that. My life is good. Still, the world is larger than the immediate needs of my little family and I need to be aware of that. Along those lines I baked muffins for a friend yesterday. While I don’t see Greg that often any more, he and his family live in our neighborhood. He and I worked on a few committees together when our children were in grade school.

I had heard that Greg had cancer surgery and was waiting to hear the results of the tests that measured whether the cancer had spread. In the meantime, a troubled employee had entered Greg’s place of work and gone on a shooting spree. By the time he was finished, four people, including the gunman, were dead.

When I rang their doorbell, Greg and his wife had just returned from the final funeral. Greg is a high ranking executive at the company. Until recently Greg’s wife was also an employee there, so they both knew all of the victims quite well. Greg reported that he had good news about his test results—the cancer had not spread. But that news seemed so insignificant compared to the shooting.

Greg chatted briefly but had to go handle a disaster recovery call as the plant was going to reopen the next day. His wife talked extensively about the funerals, the families, the unexpected nature of it all. She talked about how every one of the victims had both parents at their funerals. The question on everyone’s mind was, “How do people return to work?” Their workplace will never be the same.

As I left I was struck by how little I had managed to say to them. I couldn't begin to comprehend their pain. The visit made me thankful that my biggest challenge was a loving, although forgetful parent. Forgetfulness seemed like a gift—one that I wished I could share and dispense as needed.