Yikes! I forgot!

I had two ideas for what I was going to write about this morning. I was developing them in my head all week, complete with introductions, illustrations, and snappy conclusions. Then yesterday, just in case, I looked back through my previous blogs and, sure enough, I had already written and posted both of them.

I had forgotten. I’m glad I checked, although chances are you would have also already forgotten them.

Growing older and memory loss is almost a cliché. Memory jokes about old people abound. For example,

“My memory is so bad.”
      “How bad is it?”
      “How bad is what?”

Not only is my short-term memory bad, but so is my short-term memory.

As you get older, three things happen. The first is your memory goes and I can’t remember the other two.

OK. Feel free to groan. Three times. But memory loss in the elderly is not just a funny stereotype. It’s a common reality, affecting all of us to a certain extent.

With Hal, it’s mostly his glasses, although his wallet and car keys also have a way of wandering off. Typically we’re out the door and half-way down the hall when he remembers what he forgot and has to go back, leaving me nervous and fretful about being late.

I can’t fret too much though because lately I’ve been misplacing my apartment key and the fob that lets me into this building. It’s not that we don’t have designated places to put important stuff. We do. It’s just that we keep forgetting to put the stuff there.

It helps to laugh. All this is funny.

Except when it isn’t.

It’s not funny when I forget appointments and obligations. It’s not funny when my memory lapses affect other people. Or when the consequences impact my own life.

I love my doctor. After six years consulting various specialists, trying to find out what was wrong with my head, I found her. On our first visit she named the monster and gave me hope we could find a way back to stability. As the “head” of the headache clinic of Oregon’s largest research hospital, she is in demand. So our consultations come roughly every three to four months, often via Zoom. But that’s enough to consider the effects of the latest experimental medication and plan out the next steps. She always gives me a huge dose of hope.

You’ve probably figured out where this is going. Our latest meeting was scheduled for last week, on Zoom. The date was well marked on the wall calendar and in my phone. I had been looking forward to it for weeks. I was pre-checked in. That morning I said to Hal, “Help me remember to get online at 1:00.”

It was a busy day. I remembered my appointment. But at 4:00. My heart fell when I looked at my watch and realized what had happened.

I’m still reacting to my breach of courtesy and responsibility. Chagrin. Regret. Embarrassment.

I made contact with the office, offered my apology, and managed to get an appointment this week with a nurse practitioner. The earliest I could schedule a time with my doctor was in March 2025. Seven months away. Like I said, she’s a busy lady. (By that time she’ll probably have forgotten who I am.)

Yes, there are strategies to help us remember—calendars, notes placed around the house, perhaps an irritating alarm on the phone, etc. There are things I can do and I am determined to double down on my remembering strategies. But right now, I’m frankly discouraged.

We read in the Scriptures that God cherishes us so much that he writes our names on the palms of his hand. That’s a metaphor, certainly not a strategy to help God remember who we are. But I wonder if that’s something I could do. Write “Doctor. 1:00” on my hand and hope I don’t wash it off.

Lord Jesus, have mercy on me. Have mercy on us all.

(Have I written about this before?)