I look at the contours of his slim face and his strong muscular body. Witek is all I could have wished him to be—a scientist working on the brain, an athlete, and a kind man. He finished his first Ironman just a couple of weeks ago, while I was in the ER, and now he’s training for the next one. His goal is to qualify for the Kona Ironman in Hawaii, the crown of the Ironman competitions. He’s found the love of his life, Cheyenne, who shares his fascination with endurance sports. I’m proud of him and glad he is by my side.
But today I feel acutely that our lifelong roles have reversed. I am no longer his strong mother-protector. Instead, he’s leading me as if I were his little daughter. His presence gives me a warm sense of safety but I feel odd—fragile and dependent.
We talk about everyday things: his work, friends, the weather. The air is damp, the sidewalk wet. As often happens here in July, there have been some severe storms. But I don’t remember them. I know there’ve been storms only because I see tree limbs scattered all over our neighborhood, and several houses have been damaged by huge branches falling on their roofs.
We pass a car with half of a tree splayed across it. The car is crumpled, the metal mangled. The windows are shattered, the glass all over the sidewalk.
“Look at this car!” I say to Witek. “What a terrible thing. Wow, half the tree fell on it!”
“Yeah, bad luck,” he agrees. We continue walking.
Inside the pharmacy, I cling to Witek, not confident enough to let him out of my sight. But as we wait for the prescription, he wanders off, checking the products on the shelves.
I find myself uneasy. There are too many people here, too many things going on. I start to meander but have trouble navigating the store. I knock into shelves, bump into other shoppers. It’s as if I’ve lost my balance or can’t estimate my distance from objects. I don’t quite sense the boundaries of my own body, can’t really feel where it starts and ends, have no real awareness that this is me and that is the outside world. I feel as if I’ve fused with my environment.
I’m frightened. Where is my son?
Witek finds me, my prescription in his hand, and we head for home, walking slowly as I hold on to his arm. We pass a car with half of a tree splayed across it. The car is crumpled, the metal mangled. The windows are shattered, the glass all over the sidewalk. There must have been a storm last night.
“Look at this car, Witek!” I say. “What a terrible thing—a tree fell on it.”
Witek gives me a strange look. He seems surprised and uneasy. I don’t like it.
Something is wrong. What have I done?
As I look into his face, I grab him tighter. I’m afraid to let go.
Like a person with early-stage Alzheimer’s or any number of other mental conditions, including brain injuries, I am losing my short-term memory. While I retain sharp memories of my childhood and various long-gone incidents—which is why I can write so much about them—I can’t remember what happened just minutes ago. Short-term memories are processed differently in the brain than long-term memories, so people with dementia can often remember events that happened in their childhoods but have trouble recollecting what they had for breakfast that day. Long-term memories are tucked away in our brains for safekeeping with strong emotional attachments tied to them, since they may be useful for survival. Short-term memories appear to be more like temporary factoids waiting to be categorized and evaluated. If important, they’ll be stored. If they’re unimportant, they’re not tagged for retention and will vanish.
But I don’t realize that my memory is faltering. I don’t realize that I’m missing anything at all.
“Mom, we saw that car on the way to the store,” Witek says carefully. “You don’t remember?”
I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.
Late the next morning, Mirek and I drive to a nearby trail that snakes through the woods behind the houses in our neighborhood. Strolling among the trees, we move slowly, holding hands. We talk about what to make for dinner, what shopping needs to be done—the small talk of everyday life. But mostly, we enjoy the silence.
Mirek decides it is time to head back. In less than half an hour, we reach our car, which is parked on the side of a quiet street. When he gets into the car, I tell him I’m not ready to stop walking. I like to move. I can rarely stay still—at the office, I’ve always been one to jump up and stretch and walk through the labs, check up on things—and I try to find every opportunity for more time outdoors.
“I will walk home,” I say. “I need the vigorous movement, okay?”
He hesitates, then tells me he’s not sure I’ll be able to find my way back.
“Oh, please, we’re just a mile away! Of course I can get home,” I say. “I know these streets as well as you do.”
I turn and start walking, fast. Moments later, he passes me in the car. I wave and he waves back, smiling.
It is a hot and hazy July afternoon. The world around me is quiet, which I cherish. A few birds chirp cheerily; cars hum in the distance. I walk happily, legs moving briskly, arms pumping to increase circulation in my upper body.
At first, my stride is very fast—but not for long. I soon tire and slow down. My body is a shadow of what it was before the treatment and stress of illness took their toll. I’ve lost a lot of muscle mass, the result of high doses of steroids. I look down at my thighs, once muscular and strong, capable of
