As a young whipper snapper, I never considered that one day I too would be a senior citizen.
Based on my knowledge of being young once, a decade or so ago, most young people have other things on their minds, and getting older isn’t top of mind.
But then one morning, seemingly without warning, there it is — the year that one becomes eligible for the youngest age seniors’ discount offered in restaurants and on public transit. And then the first pension cheque shows up in the bank account and it is official.
I confess I always teased my Mother when she would wander back from another room in the house and look bewildered as to why she had been there in the first place. Then the reason would dawn on her and off she would bustle to complete the errand from her first trip. Of course, with the ego of youth, I suggested she should make notes to herself so she wouldn’t wear out her shoes and the carpet with all those extra steps.
She’d reply: “You will be old someday,” and I would laugh, convinced that when I did get “old” my memory cells would never let me down. Fat lot I knew.
And so now I’m getting older each day, and perhaps I’m imagining it, but I have the distinct impression I’m putting on unnecessary steps because I forget why I went into the laundry room with the frozen treats or what reason I might have had for looking in the cupboard and complaining that I can’t find the milk carton.
I have lovely conversations with folks whose faces are very familiar, but whose names escape me — at least until we get home and the light bulb flicks on. Then I feel badly because I didn’t call that person by name. Housemate says I should just admit that I can’t remember a name but that would be suggesting to perhaps perfect strangers that my memory is on pause mode. Maybe in 15 years or so.
I’ve attended conferences where one of the speakers was a memory expert who had all sorts of tricks to stimulate one’s memory and to keep it sharp. I have those course notes, but for the life of me, I can’t remember where I stored them. Nor can I remember any of his tips. That must mean I wasn’t paying attention at his workshop or that he was a poor teacher.
Then recently a newspaper headline attracted my attention, advising that help is available when memory fails. I thought it might be the work of that convention speaker, this time on a new forum, with a new audience. Instead the story was about aids for individuals with dementia and Alzheimer’s disease. But as I read more, I think some of those aids might help me as I wander here and there trying to remember some piece of information that I know is important.
The kits contain CDs and DVDs to spark memories and help with conversations on such topics as farm days, fashion, pets, games, the 1950s, even birthdays, with suitable accompanying music.
If I were to ever need one of the kits, I would like one with polka and two-step music, and maybe some jive tunes, and definitely songs from an accordion — some of my favourite things.
In the meantime, I will apologize posthumously to my parents for laughing at them for being forgetful.
Now if I could just remember why I thought I needed to go shopping today. Sigh.
Joyce Walter can be reached at [email protected]
