I’m Not Ignoring You

There is an email in my inbox that I need to reply to.

I know this because I read it.

I remember reading it. I remember thinking about what I was going to say. I probably even mentally composed the first couple of sentences. I distinctly remember thinking, I’ll reply to that properly when I have a minute.

Then I blinked.

Three weeks passed.

This happens to me with emails in particular, and for ages I didn’t really understand what was happening. I assumed I was disorganised. Forgetful. Rude, even.

The strange thing is that it doesn’t feel like forgetting.

I haven’t forgotten who the person is. I haven’t necessarily forgotten what their email said. If you asked me whether I intended to reply, the answer would be an emphatic yes.

Somewhere between intending to do something and actually doing it, however, my brain has apparently filed the task in a cupboard, shut the door and wandered off.

Then, weeks later, I’ll suddenly remember.

OH GOD. THE EMAIL.

I check the date expecting it to have been a few days.

It was sent on the 3rd.

It is now the 26th.

How?

Apparently, there’s a reason for this

Since being diagnosed with MS, I’ve become increasingly aware that cognitive symptoms aren’t necessarily as obvious as simply “having a bad memory.”

MS can affect attention, information-processing speed, working memory and executive functioning. There is also something called prospective memory: essentially, our ability to remember that we intended to do something in the future.

And suddenly my email problem makes considerably more sense.

When I read an email, I haven’t failed to understand it. I’ve successfully formed the intention to respond.

I need to reply to this.

The problem comes afterwards.

Once the email disappears from my screen, the intention seems to disappear with it.

There is no little office worker inside my brain dutifully holding a clipboard and reminding me:

EMAIL FROM SARAH — RESPONSE OUTSTANDING — 14 DAYS OVERDUE.

Sarah has simply ceased to exist.

Sorry, Sarah.

The weirdest part is the passage of time

This is the bit I find particularly difficult to explain.

I genuinely don’t realise how much time has passed.

It isn’t:

I know I’ve left that email unanswered for three weeks and I’m deliberately avoiding it.

It’s more like:

I really must reply to that email I got a few days ago.

Then I open it and discover that my definition of “a few days ago” is apparently three weeks ago last Tuesday.

There is something quite unnerving about that.

Before MS, I thought of memory as being about the past. You either remembered something that happened or you didn’t.

I hadn’t really considered how much memory is involved in managing the future.

Remember to send that form.

Remember to reply to that person.

Remember to book that appointment.

Remember that you told somebody you’d get back to them.

Remember that there is a half-written email sitting in your drafts folder because you got distracted halfway through it.

Apparently my brain has decided that linear time is more of a suggestion.

Then comes the guilt

This is where a cognitive problem becomes an emotional one.

Because eventually I do remember.

And now I haven’t just got an email to answer.

I’ve got an email to answer three weeks late.

So what would originally have been:

Hi! Yes, Thursday works perfectly. Thanks!

has somehow become a major diplomatic exercise.

Do I acknowledge the delay?

Do I explain?

Will explaining sound like an excuse?

Do they think I’ve been ignoring them?

Are they annoyed?

Is it now embarrassingly late to reply?

Should I write a proper response because I’ve left it so long?

I’ll do it later when I have enough energy to write it properly.

Oh no.

We have restarted the cycle.

This is the cruelly funny part. The shame created by forgetting to reply can actually make replying require more executive function.

The original email might have required two minutes of cognitive effort.

The three-week-late email now requires an apology, an explanation, the actual answer and approximately seventeen minutes of staring at the screen feeling like a terrible human being.

Email seems particularly designed to defeat me

Texts aren’t quite as bad.

Someone might message me again. Their name might appear at the top of my conversations. I might open the messaging app for another reason and see it.

Emails disappear.

You read one, close it, and immediately twenty newsletters, receipts, theatre emails, university emails, work messages and advertisements pile on top of it.

The visual reminder is gone.

Unfortunately, my brain seems to operate increasingly on the principle:

Out of sight, out of cognitive existence.

Email also has a deceptively high cognitive load.

You have to read it, process what someone wants, decide what information you need to provide, formulate an appropriate response, possibly check something elsewhere, return to the email, write the response and send it.

On a good brain day, that’s nothing.

On an MS-fatigue-brain-fog day, apparently that’s an administrative quest worthy of Tolkien.

So, no, I’m probably not ignoring you

This is the thing I wish I could somehow attach automatically to the bottom of every email I receive.

If I haven’t replied, there is an overwhelmingly good chance that I think I have only just received your email.

Or I read it, fully intended to reply and my brain failed to retain the intention.

Or I started constructing the response mentally and somehow my brain has counted that as completing the actual task.

Or I’ve remembered it approximately eleven times at moments when replying was impossible — in the shower, driving somewhere, standing in a queue — and forgotten it again the second I could actually do something about it.

A gentle reminder genuinely doesn’t offend me.

In fact:

Please remind me.

You don’t need to write an elaborate apology for chasing me. You aren’t bothering me. You aren’t being pushy.

There is every possibility that your reminder will produce:

OH THANK GOD THEY REMINDED ME.

I’m learning to build an external brain

One of the stranger adjustments to chronic illness has been accepting that sometimes I can’t rely on my brain to remind me of things simply because they’re important.

Importance doesn’t seem to make much difference.

So I’m trying to externalise it.

Flag the email.

Set a reminder.

Put it on a list.

Leave it unread if I can’t answer it immediately.

Have designated times for dealing with emails rather than assuming I’ll magically remember later.

Use templates for the repetitive ones.

Essentially, stop expecting my brain to behave exactly as it did before and then becoming angry with myself when it doesn’t.

I’m still working on that last one.

Three weeks later…

There is something both fascinating and incredibly frustrating about discovering all the tiny invisible jobs your brain used to perform without you noticing.

Keeping track of time.

Holding intentions in the background.

Prioritising tasks.

Bringing something back into your consciousness at the appropriate moment.

Initiating an action.

Switching between tasks.

None of those things look particularly impressive until your brain becomes slightly less reliable at doing them.

Then you realise just how much work was happening behind the scenes.

So if you’ve emailed me and are awaiting a response, I apologise.

I probably care very much about whatever you’ve sent me.

I probably have every intention of replying.

I may even currently believe your email arrived on Tuesday.

Unfortunately, it is entirely possible that Tuesday was three weeks ago.