Since we are our memory, what does this mean for her—and for me?
An out-of-town friend made a remark last week, after visiting us and observing Evelyn for a couple of days.
“We are our memory,” he said. I’ve decided he’s right, and the truth is a double-edged sword.
On the one hand, memory gives us our identity and self-confidence.
• We remember what we’ve learned, which equips us to tackle the task at hand.
• We remember what we’ve accomplished, and this reminds us we can accomplish again.
• We remember our reputation, so we strive to live up to it.
• We remember our failures, and this leads us toward places we can succeed. Staying there is where we feel best about ourselves.
The problem
But that resting place can lead to the problem with memories. Some memories make me shudder. And if I’m not careful, they will undermine my resolve or trap me in some dysfunction. It’s true for almost everyone.
Abused as a child, some struggle as adults to form healthy relationships. Fired from one job, some settle for a safer career path that doesn’t tap their whole potential. Teenagers trying to fit in can’t forget the ridicule a classmate suffered for choosing unpopular clothes or friends. Parents with an unreasonable child give in to her demands because they don’t want a repeat of the teary meltdown they encountered the last time they said no.
We are our memory.
Seared into my memory is the time my dad called me lazy. And now I wonder, was that one remark behind my tendency never to feel I’ve done anything well enough? Could he know that since that day I would struggle to believe my Christian obedience and service were enough to earn God’s favor?
How do I know I’m a writer, an editor, a workshop leader, or a gardener? How do I believe Terry and Bill and Roy are my friends? How do I get to the doctor’s office or find which shirt works with the gray sweater in my closet?
I remember.
The question
But if I can’t remember, where does that leave me? If I can’t remember the word for deodorant or remote control, if I don’t realize my jeans are not my pajamas, if I turn right instead of left to get from the living room to the bathroom in the house where I’ve lived for years, if I’m surprised to hear what we’re doing this evening, even though you say you’ve told me before, what must I think about myself? Without my memory, who am I?
I can’t imagine what this feels like. But thinking about it inspires new determination and sympathy. The Alzheimer’s patient in my house labors with a struggle greater than we realize. I don’t face any difficulty as overwhelming as her effort simply to remember. But that’s not all. Her very sense of self is at risk because of the cluttered pathways in her brain.
The determination
And so, while she forgets what day it is or whether she’s using her fork or mine at the dinner table, this I must not forget: All we know about her is being slowly eroded by a disease no one chose; it’s not her fault. All the wonderful attributes and accomplishments we once saw in her were all true; in some sense, they’re still there, shrouded behind the fog of this disease.
While coping with the frustrating present, I will think about her beautiful past. She’s forgetting, but I will—I must—remember.
Photos by Bulat Silvia at iStockPhotos.com and Ian Wetherill at Unsplash.com