I have a confession to make. I’m having more trouble remembering people and events in my recent past. My short-term memory seems to fail me more these days. I was never good with names, but faces and events I’ve always remembered with clarity. But I’m losing that ability.
Ha! He’s getting older, you might think, which, of course, is true. But is that the entire prognosis?
Consider this: my memory for what happens in the stories that I have written doesn’t seem to fade at all. Not only the characters and situation, but also the dialog and descriptions seem locked in my memory. I dream within the settings of my current works in progress. More and more it seems that I’m living my life through these fictional characters and their environments, and they are taking over more and more of my gray matter.
Is it even possible to use up brain cells with fiction to the point of pushing out reality? I’m skeptical, but that’s how it feels to me lately.
It’s not that I mind, so much. I enjoy my fantasy life, my imaginary worlds. But I’m beginning to feel sorry for my husband, Herman. Weekly, sometimes daily, he shakes his head at something else I’ve forgotten.
I’d be lying if I said we weren’t both concerned about the possibility of early Alzheimers. I think we’re crossing our fingers, hoping it’s just another stage of getting older. The irony is, I’ve spent years practicing to stay in the now, to spend as little time as possible in the past. Looks like that is beginning to come to me naturally, without any effort on my part.
Little Vin at Dreamland by Edward Patterson
2 months ago