I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now about how bad my memory is.
But I keep forgetting.
I forget small things – words, that the stove is on, that I’m watering the garden, why I came into the room, that I want to blog, that I’m filling the pool, that I’ve left something at a shop to be fixed.
I forget big things – mostly people. Yes, I’m that rude bitch who has met you three times and still acts like she’s never laid eyes on you. Because I have totally forgotten you. Not because you aren’t scintillating; because my memory is like a cheap, mass-manufactured sieve. And when you gently remind me that we have met, I will say, “Oh of course, how silly of me!” I still have no clue who you are.
I’m not alone with this though. We started talking about it on the soccer-mom bench the other day, and it seems we all suffer.
“My story is the worst,” said Mom 1. “I’m too embarrassed to tell you.”
“We’ll probably forget it,” I reassured her, morosely.
“Yes,” said Mom 2. “We’ll remember how we sat here bonding and how lovely it was but we won’t have a clue what the story is.”
Oh how we laughed. And then she told us the story, which was hilarious and we slapped our knees and said, “That’s marvellous.”
I would tell you the story, but I’ve forgotten.
I wish I was joking.
Honestly, the whole thing is so bad that I suspect that I might have a brain tumour. A lovely psychologist friend reassured me. According to her, if the patient (that’s me) presents saying that they think that they have memory loss, they probably don’t. It’s when the patient says that their family thinks they have memory loss, but they know that they are fine, that there’s a problem.
So as long as I can remember to worry about my memory loss, that’s okay then. . .