Firing my mental neurons

 There’s a lot of talk around here about “the aging brain.” I hear that phrase and scary images of dementia and Alzheimer’s rise up to haunt me. I wonder if conditions like this are inevitable. It’s happened to a lot of good people. Why not me?

It used to be accepted as fact that dead brain cells could not be replaced, giving scant hope to an aging population. This is no longer considered good science. It seems that the human brain is more amazing that we ever expected and that new cell growth and new mental pathways can indeed be generated. The aging brain seems to be getting younger all the time.

These last few years I’ve been reading a lot of brain books and the new information is reviving my hope that maybe I won’t turn into a slobbering, shuffling, dim-witted old lady. Or at least that there some things I can do to make that scenario less likely.

Let me give you a list of helpful books I’m learning from: Switch on Your Brain, Carolyn Leaf, 2013 (information for changing addictive negative thought patterns); The Body Keeps the Score: Brains, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma, 2014 (probably the best of the lot); The Brain that Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science, Norman Doidge, 2007 (explains neuroplasticity, with lots of examples); and Think Again: The Power of Knowing What You Don’t Know, Adam Grant, 2021 (encourages us to be open-minded, ever learning, able to change our perspectives).

The retirement home I live in is good in providing educational opportunities and activities to keep our brains active. A puzzle rack lets us take home our pick of crossword puzzles, word searches, or Sudoku games. A continual menu of lectures, seminars, book clubs, and conversation groups offers chances to sharpen our mental acuity.

A year ago, I noticed some publicity on our bulletin board, announcing a seminar of brain exercises for the aging. The blurb promised that if we attended the seminar and did the exercises, we would fire our mental neurons. That sounded like something good for us aging citizens. It inspired me to go right upstairs to my room and write this poem.

It Had To Be Done

Seated behind my hard
wood executive desk,
looking down
on the city below,
I finally did
what had to be done.
I invited all my mental
neurons in and I told them,
Guys, you’ve been doing
a great job, but times
are tough, and I have
to let you go.
I fired them all.

 

Humor aside, there really is something to the idea of firing our mental neurons. While I don’t understand the science of it all, I’m convinced that neuroplasticity is a reality. Neuroplasticity. It’s not only a fun word to say, it’s an incredibly hopeful concept.

According to the experts (and there are an inordinate number of them around), we can do things to help neuroplasticity along. Some of it is commonsense, stuff like getting plenty of sleep, cultivating friendships, drinking lots of water, learning new things, walking in a forest, doing puzzles, and so on. We don’t really need an expert to tell us this. But it helps to take it seriously.

Knowing about neuroplasticity gives me hope, but my realistic self clicks in at this point. Aging is real, and I know my body is changing, slowing down. I’m getting shorter. I’m saying, “What? Speak up!” more often. It seems only natural that there be some wearing-down in my brain, too. It’s a part of my body and all of it is getting older.

For example, I used to pride myself on being a multi-tasker, juggling all sorts of balls and not dropping any of them. People could depend on me getting all my tasks done. I was so very organized. Well, no more. It’s now one thing at a time, with a list to remind me what comes next. Actually, I like it this way. Juggling all those balls wasn’t that much fun. But the point is, I no longer have a choice.

And take forgetfulness. Hal and I have a large daily calendar taped on our bedroom door. If we don’t write down every appointment or meeting, we possibly won’t show up. I can’t read an email message and think, “This is really important. I’ll answer it later when I can take my time.” It won’t happen. Time will take me and the important message will vanish.

So I have to strategize more, take less for granted. Be more careful, less proud of my innate abilities. Maybe these kinds of mental strategies are my brain’s way to cope.

Some very intelligent and responsible older people are afflicted with dementia in all its forms. Science still struggles to understand and help people with these conditions. We can’t pinpoint the causes or know ahead of time who it will happen to. Maybe us, our spouse, or our friend.

Even so, the brain’s neuroplasticity gives me hope. This is real. Knowing I can do things to cooperate with the process of renewal motivates me.

I take courage from the words of St. Paul in Romans 12: “I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies [including your brains] as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship. Do not be conformed to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.”

Let’s fire those mental neurons!

The dark path in the forest

 The three words were picture, captain, and garden. I was instructed to remember these words as the nurse would ask me to repeat them again in a few minutes. So I formed a mental image of a framed picture where a sea-captain was walking in a garden. I know my limitations. If I can’t picture it, I forget it.

She then gave me the clock-test, a blank sheet of paper with instructions to draw the face of a clock and mark 10 minutes after 11. I had no problem drawing the clock with evenly spaced numbers. But it took me a few seconds to get the hands to the right time. The little hand on eleven. Right. But 10 after? Using my logic I counted ten digits after the 11, which actually set the clock for 11:05. I handed in the paper. She quietly walked out the room.

In a few minutes The Nurse came in and asked me the three words. I had to first bring up the image, see the captain smelling the roses; then I gave the Right Answer. The Nurse smiled. Then she frowned. She told me I had messed up the clock test and she showed me my drawing. I instantly recognized what I had gotten wrong and proceeded to explain my logic, flawed as it was. I suppose I was a bit defensive. But The Nurse was definitely defensive and cut me off by stating, “No! You failed the test! This is a strong indication of cognitive impairment.”

Well. That shut me up. For a few seconds. Then I protested. How could such a flimsy silly little test lead to such a serious diagnosis? She wasn’t even a doctor! Fortunately, I had the sense not to spout my academic degrees, professional accomplishments, and other such nonsense. But I did protest and she came back insisting I go to a specialist for further testing. All on the basis of the clock test.

That was my annual wellness exam, just a few days ago. I left the clinic less well than when I went in.

I’ve been stewing about it ever since. Hal assures me, “No, Nancy. You are not cognitively impaired.” But off and on, those nasty words, cognitive impairment,­ run through my brain, turning somersaults around my common sense, ricocheting off the walls of reason.

In short, I’m mad. And when I get mad, it’s not pretty. I’m mad at The Nurse. I resent the presumption and the stereotyping. I hate the memory of the pity in her eyes as this demented old lady left her office. I hate it when medical professionals see bodies and cases, not people.

Reflecting on the incident in a calmer frame of mind, three things are coming clear. The first is my need to forgive The Nurse. That doesn’t mean excusing her behavior. Less presumption and defensiveness, more sensitivity and a bit of common sense are good qualities in nurses and doctors. But she’s only human. Like me. So I’m saying the words of forgiveness and trusting that eventually the emotions will follow.

The second thing I’m realizing is that of course I’m cognitively impaired. I’ve been cognitively impaired all my life, and it has little to do with growing older. Some people call the condition dyslexia. And while I have only a mild case, it’s always made it difficult for me to do certain things. The alphabet, for instance. I can’t for the life of me get the letters in the right order unless I sing the silly little ABC song I learned as a child. I have to do that when filing documents, which can be embarrassing if other people are around.

I have trouble telling right from left. When asked to turn to the right, I have to literally focus on my writing hand and make the translation from write to right. (Fortunately, I’m right-handed.) The other thing I have trouble with is telling time. I have little exercises that compensate and get me to appointments on time. The before and after parts always confuse me (e.g., “10 after 11”). The Nurse didn’t know that. Would it have made a difference? Possibly not.

The other thing I’m realizing is that all this anger is really a cover-up for fear. The real emotion.

Cognitive impairment, memory loss, Alzheimer’s, dementia—all of this is the dark path in the forest of growing older. Will it happen to me? Will it happen to Hal? Will it be gradual? Will I know it’s happening? How old will I be? What will I be like? Will I be a burden, or worse, an embarrassment to my family? Is the clock test really a sign on the trail?

Or maybe it won’t happen to me. After all, it’s not inevitable.

I can’t picture myself as demented, but I have to ask, “Why not me?” It has happened to many of my friends and loved ones. Intelligent people. Strong people who made significant contributions. People who had adopted admirable life-styles, ate nutritious food, exercised their brains as well as their bodies, and enjoyed reasonable good health. “Why them?” is a question without an answer. As is, “Why not me?”

I had the blessing of not seen my parents go through any kind of cognitive impairment. That would have been an agony to witness. But the blessing is mixed. They missed this experience because they both died young. On the other hand, both Hal and I suffered alongside his parents as they lived into their 90s and had a very difficult last few years. We trust they are whole now, enjoying all their God-given capacities.

But we’re still here, facing an uncertain future. So, we juggle fear and faith. Even as we trust God, we face the nagging possibilities that loom in front of us on the path.

I’m not certain how to handle all this. I will affirm the Scriptures that talk about the righteous living long and fruitful lives. I will remind myself to make the most of the present time, to love my family well, to read good books, to pray, to attend to the needs of others as I am able. And to have fun. Fun is good and laughter heals the body as well as the mind.

As someone has said, “Wherever you are, be there.” I try to do that.

Plus, it really helps to hear Hal say, “Nancy! You are not cognitively impaired!”