Grandma Sherfy was my current age—75—in 1963.
That year, I was a cocky high school junior—finding my bearings, myself, my prowess.
Aunt Blanche would die in November—breast cancer.
So would President Kennedy.
We were catching our breath on the far side of the Cuban missile crisis.
Grandma would live another decade.
And in that time, she worried about many things.
Where the money would come from? Widowed young, always a homemaker and a preacher’s wife, she had no financial resources.
Could she still babysit or care for the more frail?
How much would she have to depend on my dad and mom?
Had her children married well?
How often would she have to put up with Aunt Mary?
Was her church becoming too liberal, too worldly?
She was often unsettled, aggrieved, dour. She was the “hard” grandma—whose nineteenth century corset made it difficult to exchange affectionate hugs. She fretted over much that she could not relinquish to her god in spite of his promises.
But—of all that troubled her—dementia were not on her list.
It is on mine—and those of my contemporaries.
The horrifying, unthinkable, numerically-all-too-probable possibility of ceasing to know reality;
Or ourselves
And all that we love—family and friends and books and memories and place.
It is the torment of aging in this century; the most dire of diagnoses.
It’s rendered cancer and heart disease reassuring.
And it niggles at the edge of our everyday lives:
Keys stowed in the wrong pocket of my purse;
Emails repeated within the same hour to the same recipient;
A familiar face hanging there with no name;
Sour cream purchased twice in one week.
We let none of those moments slide by us without the question.
Without the fear.
And so we let worry become its own truth. Its own disease.
PhDs and MDs speculate about this pandemic of dementia.
Is it because we live longer?
Or that they’ve tamed other old people ailments?
Is it our toxic world?
It’s all speculation.
And the recommended nostrums offered for every element of aging: to exercise, eat well, be social, be mellow.
In fact, magazines should no longer accept chirpy cure-all articles that feature those panaceas. We know. God we know!
I, for one, though, think that our fear of dementia should itself be a condition. A diagnosis. A disease to address.
And that our doctors should write this prescription:
Play, eat what you want, sing off key, wiggle your butt when your favorite music comes along, leave the bed unmade and your towel on the bathroom floor at least once a week.
Sit on your porch as the sun comes down in the summer. Follow the trill of a robin at dusk and a magpie’s gossip. Let your dog and cat snuggle into bed with you.
Read. Find eloquence in poems and essays and mysteries and rom coms. Write. Paint. Cook. Garden.
Above all, surround yourself with people who laugh and who treasure every element of the world’s splendor and silliness.
Of course, contribute—share a bit of your muscle and intellect and caring with others. Nothing huge—just something real.
And then, in the event that the universe slips in to borrow a bit of your memory before you’re ready, you’ll be caught unawares. Maybe singing and dancing and laughing. Maybe the plague of panic and despair won’t have cheated you of precious hours. ©
