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?)

“Age Shame”—the hidden disease

 I was visiting with a good friend last week. She was telling me about a new insight she had on how shame is a part of growing older in our culture. Even in people with a fairly well-balanced sense of self (we both consider ourselves in that category, true or not), shame about aging seems to express itself in all kinds of circumstances.

Recently my friend was driving a family member to an appointment and she found herself asking, “Are you uneasy with someone my age driving?” She happens to be a good, confident driver. No need to ask that question; it just appeared from somewhere, as though there was something inherently dangerous about “someone my age” driving.

I’ve never thought of myself as struggling with feelings of shame, but as we continued our conversation, I began to recognize a problem. We thought of different “reasons” an older person might feel shame. Hearing loss is one fact of aging that produces shame. It gets embarrassing to keep asking, “What?” This is the source of a lot of old-people jokes. Hal has faced this for several years now, and finally, it’s my turn. I’m realizing I’m asking the what-question more frequently. Sometimes I find myself smiling agreeably at what someone has said, just because I don’t want to have to say What? again. So I went to audiologist and testing showed I need hearing-aids. Which introduces a new potential source of shame—those unsightly mechanical devices sticking out your ear that announce to the world, “I’m old.”

Another potential source of shame: realizing that we need a cane, walker, or wheel chair. I have a problem with vestibular migraines which, while not producing pain, make me dizzy. So I’ve taken to using a walking stick which helps my sense of balance, but I feel apologetic (totally illogical!) and find myself hoping no one mistakes it for a cane. Silly, but real.

Any more when I’m in a large family gathering, I find the younger people frequently asking me, “Are you doing Ok, Mom (or Grandma)? Can I get you anything?” In planning a hike (something the family does a lot of), people now often ask, “But can Nancy do it? Should we do something else?” They’re actually being thoughtful, but it all makes me feel older and frailer than I am. (I am not frail at all!) The fact is, hiking really does make the dizziness worse, and I hate that. It turns me into a problem for other people. I’m identifying my feelings as shame.

We listed other potential sources of shame: needing frequent naps; not “getting stuff done;” forgetting appointments, names, and what day it is, etc.; not being able to do things we used to excel at; more frequent trips to the doctor; a changing body that doesn’t conform to our culture’s vision of human beauty. And the list goes on. You could undoubtedly add to it.

 Psychologist Harriet Lerner, writing in Psychology Today (2014), points to the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy about age. “Women have long been shamed for growing older…. Women have actually been taught to conceal their age, to joke and even lie about it, to treat it as a shameful little secret.” Lerner also notes that, “Considering the horribly shaming messages that people receive around issues of race, ethnicity, and sexual orientation, the matter of age may seem like a trivial one. But it’s not. Colluding with the notion that older is lesser disempowers women [and men], convincing us that we are less valuable with each passing birthday.”

To a large extent, age-shame is a culture phenomenon. Our western, middle-class culture emphasizes youth, even in aging people who are encouraged to take drugs or buy products that make us feel or look younger. Other cultures, especially in the majority world, honor the aged among them. This is certainly true of the Aymara culture of Bolivia where I lived for so many years. While the old men and women among these people suffer the usual problems of aging, they don’t feel shame, nor do their family members shame them or joke about aging. They honor the elderly and seek out their wisdom.

Shame is different than guilt. Guilt refers to negative feelings when we know we’ve done something wrong. Guilt usually points to truth and calls for confession or restitution. Shame, on the other hand, most often refers to negative feelings about who we are. It can be totally illogical. Such is shame in being old. Everyone’s is headed in this direction. It’s a reality of life and there’s not much we can do about it.

Lehner says, “To invite joy and happiness in, we can break the vicious circle of shame, silence, stigma, and secrecy that surround who we truly are. And that includes how old we are.”

I have some older friends who celebrate their age, live actively, and engage in the world around them, who have no need to hide how old they are. They serve as models to me. I’m that way—some of the time. Other times I feel shame for all sorts of things. I’ve not been conscious of this, but I hope that now, by recognizing and naming it, I’m taking a step forward in dealing with it in a healthy manner.

I’m praying the words of Psalms 40 and 41 concerning the condition of shame:

O Lord, have mercy on me and heal me.
Set my feet upon a rock.
Put a new song in my heart.
O Lord, have mercy on me.

How good to unapologetically accept who we are and just get on with life.