Dealing with Senior Moments

I am a native New Yorker. I have lived in this metropolis since I took my very first polluted breath way back in 1956. That is an awfully long time to live in this place. I have seen just about everything happen here except earthquakes and tornadoes. The biggest event that ever happened here occurred on 9/11/01. I won’t go into the horrors of that fateful day, because I don’t want to bring any bad feelings here. Let me try to stay upbeat.

New York is an awesome place. As Frank Sinatra once sang, “If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.” I really don’t know if that is true as my profession is concerned, but nobody has complained so far. That is a good sign. Almost anyone who is anyone who wants to be famous comes here to enjoy the limelight. Even criminals come here to become famous. That is the drawing power of New York.

When I was an itty-bitty child, we lived in very modest means. We were a small family of five—Dad, Mom, baby brother, baby sister, and myself. As time went on, we aged as we should. Unfortunately—not that there is ever a fortunate time—my 23-year-old baby sister was the first of the five of us to go in 1987, February third to be more precise. Not only was her death hard for me to deal with, but it was capped by, and became more tragic by, the fact that she left a beautiful four-year-old daughter behind. Somehow, life had to go on.

Indeed, as time went on, what I considered the natural path of life to continue. Yes, I was preparing for the day when my parents would have to go. In September of 2001, we had the infamous 9/11 attacks. I was fortunate that my brother—an NYC corrections officer—volunteered to assist with the rescue effort at Ground Zero. His wife, who also happens to be my sister-in-law, worked near the same area, and got away with her life as he did with his. So, we escaped the evil clutches of that horrendous day. Still, I felt that I had to go back, and get back on life’s path.

Eventually, my niece moved out to live elsewhere. I stayed home to be with Mom and Dad, because they were getting up there in age. I noticed something in both of them. I did not attribute my discovery to 9/11, but to a natural progression. I noticed that both of them were beginning to forget things—little things at first. Daddy, for example, loved special occasions like Halloween, birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and so forth. That was fine. One day, he brought home a birthday cake for me one February. It was a nice one. He even had a birthday wish written on it. It said HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MURICE.” Yes, my Daddy “accidentally” misspelled my name. I attributed it to an accident. I did not fault him, or fly off the handle. I figured that he was entitled to forget once in a while. I should know. I forget from time to time as well.

There have been other occasions as well. He even made mistakes on the cards as well. There were many times that he forgot other things, too. I was amazed that he remembered what he did remember. I was fortunate that toward the end of his life—the last five or six years—his driver's license as well as auto registration and automotive inspection tag all expired thus grounding him to being a pedestrian. He was relegated to depending on me to take him around whenever he needed to go anywhere. I did not mind at all. Better for me to ferry him around town than to have a hearse driver do it for him.

Mom was no better. Her memory lapse was also easily seen. She would tend to forget phone numbers or other details that I thought would be easy to remember. I tried to coax her to write things down, but she always felt that she would remember things. Obviously, she didn’t. She was equally as bad as Daddy when it came to memory issues.

In the days leading up to Daddy’s death, I went to the hospital to sit with him as he bravely fought liver, lung, and colon cancer. The doc pulled me aside, and told me what I had already suspected.

“Your Dad has a touch of dementia.”

Yes, I suspected as much. Even though I am not a medical expert, the signs were as clear as day. I gave him a brief test just to see how bad his memory was. I asked him to name HIS three children. He correctly named my brother and me, but he kept mentioning our niece instead of our sister who is her mother and our sister. Daddy had a medical memory problem.

Daddy passed away on September 18, 2012. Mom joined him on January 10, 2015. The story doesn't end here.

As they say, I am my parents' son. And with that, I have my own episodes to deal with. I see signs in my life that I MIGHT be on the same memory road that my parents traveled. Yes, I try to keep my mind fresh by reading newspapers every day, since I don't have the patience anymore to sit with a good book. I actively engage in political talk. I do a whole host of activities to keep my mind fresh, but I still forget where I last saw my cell phone, or if I remembered to lock my car door. There have been times even though I live quite close to my job, where I had to make a U-turn 3/4 the way to my job just to double-check the house as to whether I locked the door or not. Yes, I have my own senior moments.

Yes, I am monitoring myself very carefully. I am just 63, but memory problems can happen at almost any age. And even if one has a severe case as my parents did, one also needs to be open when someone wants to help you. In my case, my parents' advanced age also came with a dose of stubbornness the likes I have never seen before. For example, my Daddy came across as a guy who, if he looked like he was drowning in the typical backyard swimming pool, would refuse any help all the while saying that he knows how to swim, and your help is not necessary to him. Seconds later, I'd be the one who would have to administer CPR to him anyway. I, on the other hand, am the type of person who would seek help. I have a fear of dying. I don't want to see myself lost in a location with no idea of how to get home, not because I don't have the means to get home, but because I can't remember HOW to get home in the first place. When I have to drive my Jeep somewhere, especially to a place where I have never been, I require that my war wagon be fully tuned, and fully fueled. That one thing I also depend on is my Global Positioning System (GPS) unit. While the Jeep is warming up, I am busy programming the destination into the unit. I leave nothing to chance, even if I have been to the destination before.

Like Mom, I also hold a Master's degree. Hers was for Nursing. Mine is in Secondary English. I also hold a diploma above my Masters in School Administration. Needless to say, I have sat in on numerous lectures in the university, as well as a ton of various workshops in my field of Education. When I started my undergraduate studies back in 1974, I carried my textbooks, a few notebooks to write in, and a few pens. I noticed that my colleagues had also carried tape recorders as well. I could not afford one at that point in time, but I would eventually save up for one with about four or five slightly bulky cassettes to record the lectures. After a while, I briefly ditched them because it made it quite tough to carry my cargo around at times. And since I did not have a car in order to get around, I felt that it also made an open target for any holdup men who were attracted to my cassette player. As time went on, however, tape recorders became voice recorders. these recorders got physically smaller while their recording capabilities got much larger. I could easily carry one in my pocket, and record a whole day or two of lectures all day long, and not lose a second or syllable. At the same time, I was able to load the lecture into my laptop and revisit it later when it came time to study for a test. My life depends on my voice recorders.

I tried to get my Mom to use one. I figured that if there was something she wanted to say later, all she had to do is record her voice so that she could play it back later. It never materialized. Why? She also felt that she would not need the device, because she could remember what she wanted to remember. No such luck. She never used it, and, as a result, nothing changed.

Even though my parents had their problems, and I am not sure if I am dealing with the same thing, my parents had an advantage. They had me to help them. Me? I also have ME to help me, too. In other words, I am dealing with any problems alone. In a strange way, I need to stay lucid just in case I am not as lucid as I believe I should be. Strange enough, that is the sort of situation I am in.

If all of that is not bad enough, it kind of comes home when I attend my high school reunions. I loved the high school I attended, the great friends I met, and the fun I had. Then, when I attend these events, reality slaps me in the face so hard. I look at who is there. I see those who came back. I think of the others who moved, but could not attend for some reason. Then, I think of those who are no longer among us. I often wondered what kind of life they had in the end. Did they suffer dementia of Alzheimer's as I saw in my parents? I will never know, but I will actively deal with it as it enters my life.

Nobody lives forever. I clearly understand. I know that I am not immortal. I am not claiming immortality. Life needs to be enjoyed. We are to make memories, not have trouble remembering anything. I am very fortunate that I can still remember the good things as well as lots of everything else. Maybe my senior moments won't be too bad. I can still remember tons of stuff.

Perhaps, Mr. Sinatra was reminding me when he sang...

"When I was 17, it was a very good year..."