Writing is part of who I am. I can’t imagine forgetting how to do it; forming words and sentences, expressing ideas. Such an easy, natural and taken for granted skill, stolen away by synapses failing to connect; brain cells dying.
It might never happen. My octogenarian parents show no signs of it. My mum was tested because she thought her memory was failing. The morphine she’s on is the more likely culprit. She passed the tests. So no signs, no obvious risk markers, but the fear lurks: in my forgetfulness, my inability to recall where I’ve put things; the impossibility of retrieving the right word at the right time. I know it’s tiredness, and stress from being tired, that robs me of my capacity to remember, to recall, but the fear lingers. Pain is so much easier to contemplate. I can live with pain. I do live with pain. Even dying is easier to think about. Easier than contemplating losing yourself and everything that makes you who you are, without even knowing it.
I think about writing about dementia. I’ve worked with clients who have it. My sister works in the field. I have friends who have family members with it. There’s a wealth of experience and information that could be explored.
But for now, I think this is all I can manage. For now I‘m writing furiously for all I’m worth, ticking projects off against the day when who knows what, who knows when.
We all experience memory loss, and the inability to recall names and words from time to time and for various reasons. If you are worried that you or a relative may have Dementia, contact your GP who will refer you/them to a specialist.
The Alzheimer’s Society can be found here:
And Alzheimer Scotland here: