Losing Your Way

The first time I lost my way, I chalked it up to distractedness. Driving a familiar route, I let my mind wander to the day’s chores and wound up ... well, I don’t know where I ended. I did the unmanly thing and asked for directions. Twenty minutes later, my concentration firmly in place, I pulled in the driveway of the home I’d lived in for forty years, slightly concerned about this mind-wandering.

Opening the warped front door, the one that has always stuck, even when Gwen was alive, I walked into homeland territory and my heart soared. Just for a minute, I heard Gwen call, “Jon, is that you?” I almost responded with my usual, “Who else would it be?” It was a regular game that once was cute, then turned routine, and finally just before she was bedridden, became sentimental. Then reality slapped me. I'm the only one in the house now. So much familiarity creates comfort one day, debilitating depression the next. I waffled between wandering amongst the loved items and tending to them or plunking in my recliner. Sitting won. I searched the room for the peace I needed after the scary drive, waiting for it to caress my fears away. I found a piece of it in the chime of the ancient clock.

The grandfather clock still tick-tocks the day away and chimes the hour, as long as I remember to wind. I don’t always remember. But I do remember to dust Gwen’s precious French clock--the one that never has worked but sits on our fireplace mantle--and all its intricate details and ornaments. She considered that timepiece her link to the grandparents she never knew and the French ancestry she was proud to proclaim. Funny how timepieces are my connection to Gwen.

She was late to our own wedding. Gwen and I married in the backyard under the old oak tree in front of fifty friends and family members. She had me in a panic, as the hour of the wedding came and went, sweat building inside me and escaping through my suit jacket. I had assumed she'd stood me up. Like always, Gwen's sense of time was as unreliable as the French clock, but she sauntered down the makeshift aisle as if she'd been waiting to make an entrance. The oak tree has withstood time and remains a symbol of stability. Unlike myself, the magnificent tree seems not to have grown old or weathered or burdened.

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My beloved house holds memories and precious items, but now it tricks me. Nightime scares me the most. Shadows cast strange shadings on well-known furniture, confusing me. I have bumped into more walls taking a wrong turn to the bathroom and opened closets that I supposed were rooms. Losing familiarity is like losing a blankie. When my eyes see newness in old places, strange roads on well-worn paths, and newfangled contraptions in solid household appliances, I am scared.

The driving fiasco happened a few weeks ago, and since then, I’ve been careful to stick close to home and ingrained routes. Trips around town have become tense journeys to local stores for necessities only. And I park as far from other cars as possible so I can spot mine easily. My world is shrinking, and I use caution to keep that fact hidden. My daughter calls from across the country once a week, and I’m doing a good job keeping up with the news she gives me. I’m pretty smart--I take notes so I can ask for updates the following week. And it helps gets those grandkids’ names cemented in my mind. Well, cemented until it cracks and they escape.

The answering machine contains too many messages regarding missed appointments. I could swear I never made those, but there are too many to be a fluke. I keep a small notebook and pocket calendar in my jacket pocket to write things down now--doctors’ appointments, service calls, lunches with friends. It helps ... barely.

I’ve the sneaking suspicion that this memory loss will catch up with me soon. I’ve heard of Alzheimers, senility, and general memory loss that accompanies old age. I never thought the “A” word would be a danger to me. No one in my family had the type of memory problems that interfered with life. Maybe forgetting names, or repeating stories, or forgetting where items were placed, but not serious issues like ... how to get from Point A to Point B. Some days, like today, I can write about myself like I’m watching it happen. I can be lucid and quick-witted and completely present. But too often, I wake up out of a lost time frame, and I’m doing something I’ve never thought possible. Just last week I was in my bathtub fully clothed with the water rising dangerously high. Another time, I forgot how to work the microwave and waited hours for the frozen dinner to thaw and ate it cold.

I have survived loss--Gwen’s death was the worst I thought I'd ever suffer. I was wrong. Losing independence is worse. But even that’s tolerable with reliable help. It’s the loss of memory that's the worst of all. I can remember the names of my WWII battalion mates but not what I had for breakfast. I can remember my cousins and all my neighbors from my childhood but not my doctor’s name. I can remember how to start the car, just not where to go. I can remember to get up in the morning, but not always how to shave. So while I can, I’ll share this: losing an item, a job, a person isn’t your worst nightmare. Losing a piece of your identity--your memories, your ability to function in society, your sense of self, that is the most signficant loss of all.

So live while you can, and laugh while you're able.