At my age, life has become one big game of Charades. When I can’t think of a term, I’m reduced to ridiculous pantomimes, right in the middle of a sentence. Conversations take intriguing turns when, for instance, my sister says she needs to ‘broom’ the floor." All of this is said while swishing her arms in a parody of furious sweeping, because she wants me to know what she means, but she can’t put a word to it. She knew that word, ten years ago.
These days, when I introduce people, I am likely to get stuck. There’s no hiding it, either. It’s obvious I have no idea what their names are, no matter how many years we may have known each other. I usually wind up saying something like, "This is my husband . . . uh . . . umm. No . . . wait, don’t help me . . ."
I can, at least, take solace in the fact that I’m not the only one experiencing these brain blanks. One co-worker enters my office fairly often, only to stand there, blinking and studying the wall behind me. When I ask her what she needs, she says, "I haven’t the slightest idea." Her explanation is, "These days, the time it takes to travel between our offices exceeds my ability to hold a thought."
I choose to believe that all of this is a result of overload and the fact that we are running on auto-pilot most of the time. I sometimes go to the gas pump and, instead of entering the gas code, I enter my bank ATM number. Then I really get confused and can’t remember either number. So I stand there, punching all the buttons on the key pad, trying to clear the computer, and the fog in my head. People waiting in line aren’t very understanding either—especially if they’re young. All I can do is flash a stupid grin and act like this is the only time it’s ever happened.
I know there is a formula to all of this, and it has something to do with the number of calendars we’ve flipped, multiplied by the number of tasks we have to perform each day. I also know that it affects more than our speech. It also affects how we process what we hear.
Several of us were standing around the desk of a supervisor who was trying to prepare for Court the next day. Each of us had come into the office for information, which we were trying to get from each other. While he perused his files, we talked about how it is getting harder to process information through a brain that no longer uses common words. We chatted on and the supervisor continued to read, until someone inevitably mentioned Alzheimer’s. When he heard "Alzheimer’s," he looked up and said, "Alice Hammers?" Who’s "Alice Hammers?"
I don’t know who she is, but if I ever meet her, I’m going to ask if she knows how to play Charades. If she doesn’t, we’ll never be able to carry on a conversation.
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