Memory: What's That?

"Memories," the song goes, "light the corners of my mind." If only I could remember which corners.

I forgot something recently that I wish I could forget. It wasn't as bad as leaving a kid at the mall, but it's a close second. It's as bad as almost leaving your kid at the mall.

I've been acting with inattention lately. A few weeks ago, after what might have been a couple of hot flashes, my memory started to go. It didn't go gently into anyone's good night, and it didn't go unnoticed, as in misplaced keys or a forgotten appointment. We expect these lapses. No, this happened at a restaurant in front of my whole family.

When the waiter took our drink orders, I remember wanting to ask for water. When he left, I kept thinking how much I'd meant to order it; I was certain I had not said it out loud. When the waiter brought me tea, my husband sent it back with, "She ordered water." But I hadn't ordered yet, I argued. I meant to order but didn't. My husband and mother heard me ask for a glass of water. My sister heard me. My brother-in-law and daughter heard me. Even my father, who only hears when you're speaking to him, heard me.

An episode like that, in isolation, isn't a big deal.

A few nights ago, I got a knife to cut some chicken, and when I finished and put my plate in the sink, my husband asked me for my knife. "I didn't have a knife," I told him.

"Yes you did. It was right there on your plate!"

I didn't believe him. Why would I have a knife? I was eating my chicken with my fingers. But there it was, under my plate next to my fork in the sink.

In the words of Dan Quayle, "It's a terrible thing to lose one's mind."

We've all seen the slapstick comedy of a guy looking for a hat that's on his head. Well, I used to wear my sunglasses on a chain around my neck. I recently bought a pair too thick for a chain, so I stick them on my shirt, right at the neck, like a paper clip. Two weeks ago, I nearly freaked because it was sunny, and I thought I'd lost my glasses in a store. Too late to run back in, I squinted against the light and put my seatbelt on, smooshing the sunglasses against my chest. Found them.

The other night (or was it yesterday or last week?), I was talking to a writing class about the difference between intimate and personal. I explained to my students that what they write can be personal, but it doesn't have to be intimate. It led into a story about something important to their work, though I can't remember what it was now. I forgot what I was saying mid-sentence. A student had to remind me. "It must be menopause," I told them. "And that's intimate, not just personal."

This morning, I packed my husband's ham and cheese on a croissant in my daughter's lunch box, and put her peanut butter and jelly on wheat bread on the counter with my husband's carrot, apple, box of raisins, and bag of pretzels.

On the way to an appointment I had no trouble remembering this morning, I couldn't recall whether I had taken my asthma inhaler. I remember wanting to, and I remember rinsing, but the rinsing, I thought, was from the night before. So, while driving home, I counted back the number of doses I'd taken since getting the inhaler. If I remembered correctly—that is if I remembered forgetting just one dose earlier in the week—then I had missed my morning dose. Confident momentarily, I took it. As I write, I wait for the effects of the overdose. How can I trust my memory?

One theory is that I have been suffering some pain recently. On the night of the water, I had just come from the dentist where I had an onlay and a filling. My dogs knocked me down on the path while I was running last week, leaving me with a pinched nerve and sciatica, which accounts for not leaving my child at the mall. And I'm preoccupied about teaching so many courses this semester—a full-time course load for adjunct pay. Add to this depression over having to give up plans to run the half marathon due to newly realized asthma (and injury), and you have a recipe for preoccupation, or active inattention.

Yesterday, on my favorite show ("The People's Court"), a defendant said he has an excellent memory. He takes ginkgo biloba. But he only takes half a pill because he doesn't want to rememeber everything.

I know how he feels. I'd like to improve my memory but forget all the things I've forgotten. And I'd like, just once, to forget to eat.