Peach Socks, Extras and a Trip to Alzheimer's Land

This morning I woke and put on a pair of socks.  In Seattle in the spring, it is hard to pick the right pair of socks to wear.  I have summer socks (white and peek out above the ankle) and winter socks (wool, colorful, and come up mid-calf.)  I dug to the back and bottom of the drawer and found a pair of peach colored cotton socks.  Spring socks!  Ta-da!

I looked at the socks, and I couldn't remember where I got them or when I got them.  Did I have these socks for three years or five?  Ten?  Did I get them at Target or did I buy them at a fancy shoe store?  Did John and the kids get them for me at Christmas?  Ack!  Clearly, these socks are not a madeleine in my life.  They did not zoom me back to a sunny day or bring back any fond memories.  Now that my mother has Alzheimer's, I get a little worried when my memory doesn't work when I want it to.

How important is it to remember stuff like where I got a pair of socks?  It is important if I want to buy another pair just like them.  If I were a hunter or a gatherer, it would be useful to remember where I found something.  Other than that, it doesn't matter.  Am I better off clearing out the minutia so I can remember more important things, like when my kids have a field trip and need a special lunch?  Why does it freak me out that I can't remember getting these socks?  Should it?  Or is this a common middle-age brain thing?

I was talking to my friend Diane the other day.  Her daughter has not seen her biological father in ten years.  The girl is now fifteen.  Ten years is an eternity in the life of a child.  Ten years is the change between listening to The Wiggles to Macklemore.  It is the change between being friends with boys to having boyfriends with the middle where girls think boys are silly and/or gross.  These ages are almost unrecognizable to each other.

As a middle aged adult, ten years is nothing.  Unlike childhood time, middle age time is more fluid and amorphous.  I have a friend who recently told me he was 48, and I was shocked.  I remember when he turned 40 and had a party, but I didn't figure that was eight years ago.  I thought he was 42 or 43, which makes no sense because I know he is older than me.  I don't know how I got older but he didn't.

Similarly, I was reading online about a guy who associated the rock band Modest Mouse with college.  I love Modest Mouse, but it seems like they just came out maybe two years ago.  Or was it six years ago?  I'd have to back pedal to figure it out.  My favorite Modest Mouse album came out the last time we were in North Carolina, which was maybe four years ago.  I remember listening to them when we would drive to the Mountlake Terrace Pool every Sunday.  2008?  2010? I suppose I could Google it, but Google has its limits.  Google can't tell me where or when I got the peach socks.

There are other times when I fear I am visiting Alzheimer's Land.  There are time when John will tell me a story about something at work and I don't remember the details.  Usually, the stories involve people I have never met or have heard of before. Usually, there are twelve details in the story, of which two are relevant.  Usually, he tells the story while I am balancing the checkbook, working on a blog post, or otherwise pre-occupied.  I listen, and when he gets to the punchline, I ask him to go back and tell me what the relevant details were.  Conversing with him is like taking the reading comprehension part of a standardized test.  While I love him dearly, I just don't have the bandwidth to take in the all of these details which will not matter to my life six seconds after he tells the story.

Okay, so I may or may not have a memory problem here.  Maybe I am not paying attention.  Not in a bad way.  I pay attention to lots of things he says and does, especially when they pertain to major and minor characters in his world.  The extras, the ones who float on the scene for 30 seconds and I never hear about them again?  Forget about it.

I suppose it is okay to forget about the extras, like peach socks and people who are peripheral in our spouse's lives, but what happens when we forget the main characters?

I talked to my mom on Mother's Day.  Our conversation was pleasant and my mother was upbeat.  This was a surprise for me as my father said she was having a rough week her her short-term memory and getting frustrate.  At the end of the conversation, I said, "Say 'hi' to Dad for me."

"Well," she said and paused.  I could hear the smile in her voice.  "It's not your father anymore.  It is someone else."  She seemed excited to tell me.

I was shocked.  My dad said she had forgotten that they were married. Earlier in the conversation, she mentioned him several times.  I asked her about this new guy, but she didn't have any details.  I am hoping the new guy and my father are the same.

When does the slide between forgetting about socks decline into forgetting about a spouse?  I know those are dramatic differences.  I knew never memory could be so fragile.

"Of Mice and Men" and Looney Tunes

I was talking to my friend Diane today about Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck.  (One of her favorite television shows, The Walking Dead, had a storyline based on this book.)  We couldn't remember which character was George and which one was Lennie.  Was Lennie the capable one, or was George?  Which one had the disability?  She thought George was the gentle giant, and I thought it was Lennie.

"Of course," she said.  "It was Lennie!  'I will love him and pet him and squeeze him and name him George...'" She rattled off one of my favorite lines from the Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny cartoon.

"What?" I said.  "I didn't know that cartoon was based on Of Mice and Men."  I knew Warner Brothers based cartoons on opera, but I didn't know they copied literature.  "Wow.  Of Mice and Men is pretty dark."

"Looney Tunes are messed up," she said.

Indeed.

But I still love it.  Like most other children of the 1970's, I remember my brother and I waking up early on Saturday morning to watch Bugs Bunny, the Road Runner, Scooby Doo and other cartoons while my parents slept in.  Little did I know at the time they were parodying a great yet tragic book.