No Problem
I called her because I was worried. She had just visited me a few weeks prior, and I couldn't determine whether the memory loss I thought she had experienced resulted from years of depression, aging, or something worse--such as Alzheimer's. In the time since I'd seen her, I had written her a letter and sent it to her. The letter served as an outline of sorts, the symptoms I watched creep up on her like a stealthy cat: the repetition of stories, the look of confusion when I asked if she knew how to get to the store, the jumbled conversations that held no meaning. I refused to believe that these changes simply hitched a ride with the passing years and I felt compelled to plead my case.
"I don't have a memory problem," she said into the phone.
I would have liked to have been in the room with her when we spoke instead of 200 miles away. I imagined her knuckles, white as copy paper as she gripped the receiver, and the lines of her lips thin from the pressure of one against the other. Perhaps she even tapped her worn fingernails against the granite of the kitchen counter top.
"You don't think you have a memory problem?" I asked.
"No, I do not. I have so much to do, so much on my plate. But I don't have a memory problem."
How could she utter that statement and believe it? Hadn't she seen her own mother experience the same symptoms? Didn't she remember what it felt like to watch Grandma muddle her way through her day, trying to find where the knives belonged and to decide what to have for lunch? Denial had always prevailed in our house during my childhood. Obviously, times hadn't changed.
"Oh-kay." I thought I might as well probe the situation. Two hundred miles meant I would only imagine the look of disgust on her face as I pressed her. "You have to admit you were depressed all those years though. I mean, right? You were depressed. Depression can take a toll on your memory--"
"I'm not depressed, either. I was. Yes, I was. But I'm not now."
The tone of her voice told me she had completed the conversation. But my mind still formed questions, and to be honest, I wanted to know what she really thought about what was happening to her. Plus, we talked while I scrubbed the dishes, and the sink stood at half-full.
"I understand what you're saying. Maybe you aren't depressed now. But you were. That's the point. Depression could have affected your memory, such that we're seeing the consequences now. Don't you think you should talk to your doctor?"
"No, I do not. I'm on medicine anyway. For the memory loss."
Hadn't she just told me she didn't have memory loss? What the hell? Now, I pushed even more.
"What are you taking for your memory loss?"
"Ginkgo...you know, that Ginkgo pill."
I covered my mouth so she couldn't hear the snort that tumbled from my mouth. While I certainly believed in the merits of non-traditional therapies, the way she'd spoken, I'd assumed that any medicine she'd been taking would have been prescribed by her doctor. Maybe her doctor had mentioned Gingko Biloba, and maybe not.
"And does the Gingko Biloba seem to be working?"
"Yes. But you know, I just have so much to do. There are files to be put away and the mail. You should see all the junk mail that we get. Your father doesn't throw it away. I have to go through it and sort it and then--"
"All right. I know you have a lot to do. We all do." I paused, uncertain as to where to take the conversation. Nothing I said would sway her opinion. "Just do me a favor and the next time you go to the doctor, bring that letter I sent...the one with my observations. Maybe it will help with a memory assessment or something."
She was quick to answer. "They've already given me tests. And I do not have a memory problem. Why can't you girls just stay out of my business?"
We'd come full-circle. Now, there was no problem. No problem for which she took Gingko Biloba. No problem in finding her way in a hotel. No problem in remembering her sister's husband's name. No problem at all. The only one with the problem, apparently, was me. And my sisters. Because we cared enough to say something to her and wanted to get her help, if possible.
I stared at the receiver, knowing that all I had to do was hang up and the connection would snap. The tether linking us would dissipate like the smoke of her cigarettes. I would be able to pretend that the conversation had never happened, and she'd never remember it anyway. Press the button, my mind said. And yet, I couldn't do it. I had to give her the respect that a lifetime of sharing blood required.
"I guess I'll go. Have a great day," I said.
"You, too."
I hung up then and replaced the receiver into the cradle. Tears should have formed in my eyes. I should have felt distraught at the capacity of this woman to deny everything that stood out in front of her. I should have wept at my inability to help her. I should have wondered where to go next and what to do. Instead, I laughed.
"There is no problem," I said to myself. "There is no problem."
If I keep telling myself this, perhaps even I will eventually believe it.
"I don't have a memory problem," she said into the phone.
I would have liked to have been in the room with her when we spoke instead of 200 miles away. I imagined her knuckles, white as copy paper as she gripped the receiver, and the lines of her lips thin from the pressure of one against the other. Perhaps she even tapped her worn fingernails against the granite of the kitchen counter top.
"You don't think you have a memory problem?" I asked.
"No, I do not. I have so much to do, so much on my plate. But I don't have a memory problem."
How could she utter that statement and believe it? Hadn't she seen her own mother experience the same symptoms? Didn't she remember what it felt like to watch Grandma muddle her way through her day, trying to find where the knives belonged and to decide what to have for lunch? Denial had always prevailed in our house during my childhood. Obviously, times hadn't changed.
"Oh-kay." I thought I might as well probe the situation. Two hundred miles meant I would only imagine the look of disgust on her face as I pressed her. "You have to admit you were depressed all those years though. I mean, right? You were depressed. Depression can take a toll on your memory--"
"I'm not depressed, either. I was. Yes, I was. But I'm not now."
The tone of her voice told me she had completed the conversation. But my mind still formed questions, and to be honest, I wanted to know what she really thought about what was happening to her. Plus, we talked while I scrubbed the dishes, and the sink stood at half-full.
"I understand what you're saying. Maybe you aren't depressed now. But you were. That's the point. Depression could have affected your memory, such that we're seeing the consequences now. Don't you think you should talk to your doctor?"
"No, I do not. I'm on medicine anyway. For the memory loss."
Hadn't she just told me she didn't have memory loss? What the hell? Now, I pushed even more.
"What are you taking for your memory loss?"
"Ginkgo...you know, that Ginkgo pill."
I covered my mouth so she couldn't hear the snort that tumbled from my mouth. While I certainly believed in the merits of non-traditional therapies, the way she'd spoken, I'd assumed that any medicine she'd been taking would have been prescribed by her doctor. Maybe her doctor had mentioned Gingko Biloba, and maybe not.
"And does the Gingko Biloba seem to be working?"
"Yes. But you know, I just have so much to do. There are files to be put away and the mail. You should see all the junk mail that we get. Your father doesn't throw it away. I have to go through it and sort it and then--"
"All right. I know you have a lot to do. We all do." I paused, uncertain as to where to take the conversation. Nothing I said would sway her opinion. "Just do me a favor and the next time you go to the doctor, bring that letter I sent...the one with my observations. Maybe it will help with a memory assessment or something."
She was quick to answer. "They've already given me tests. And I do not have a memory problem. Why can't you girls just stay out of my business?"
We'd come full-circle. Now, there was no problem. No problem for which she took Gingko Biloba. No problem in finding her way in a hotel. No problem in remembering her sister's husband's name. No problem at all. The only one with the problem, apparently, was me. And my sisters. Because we cared enough to say something to her and wanted to get her help, if possible.
I stared at the receiver, knowing that all I had to do was hang up and the connection would snap. The tether linking us would dissipate like the smoke of her cigarettes. I would be able to pretend that the conversation had never happened, and she'd never remember it anyway. Press the button, my mind said. And yet, I couldn't do it. I had to give her the respect that a lifetime of sharing blood required.
"I guess I'll go. Have a great day," I said.
"You, too."
I hung up then and replaced the receiver into the cradle. Tears should have formed in my eyes. I should have felt distraught at the capacity of this woman to deny everything that stood out in front of her. I should have wept at my inability to help her. I should have wondered where to go next and what to do. Instead, I laughed.
"There is no problem," I said to myself. "There is no problem."
If I keep telling myself this, perhaps even I will eventually believe it.
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