Cramming for the final exam
The organ recital has been an important part of my social interactions for a while now. When I get together with old friends—meaning friends who are old—we cheerfully recount our diseases and conditions. Some might call us morbid. But I have learned a lot about the human body, how it works, what can go wrong with it, how to fix it. These conversations are generally more enlightening than depressing, because most of us still have pretty good health overall—or realistic hopes of regaining it. And I know volumes now about heart disease, cancer, autoimmune conditions, various kind of injuries.
Lately, though, a new, more ominous, note has crept into the discourse. A friend who once had an unerring mental compass arrives late because she lost her way to the restaurant where we had arranged to meet. It’s the second time in a row she’s done this. The first time I was surprised. The second time got me worried. When another friend, whose mop of curls gives her the kooky glamour of a screwball-comedy actress, double-books a get-together and apologizes for being “ditzy,” she and I laugh it off. But does her laugh now mask uncertainty? Is it the same old ditziness—or something new? A friend who’s become a regular walking companion makes me promise to alert her if she tells me the same story twice. “It’s O.K. if I repeat myself on two different occasions,” she instructs me, “but if I repeat myself during a single walk, you’ve got to let me know.” I promise I will.
I have some of the same concerns about my own mental acuity. But basically I feel sound of mind, or as sound as I ever was. I’ve suffered my whole life from lethologica, the inability to remember a common word or proper noun, and it’s just as bad as it ever was, but not a whole lot worse. I’ve never been able to find my way by following a map, and still can’t. And the plot of a good book passes through my mind the way a dessert slips over my tastebuds, leaving a memory that it was delicious but no details. The only thing that happens now is that I’m more embarrassed when these lapses occur. Because I know what people are thinking.
So like any sensible (and undemented) person, I’ve begun to cram for my MoCA (Montreal Cognitive Assessment). You know, the test that Trump took and, in his words, “aced.” I now wear only an analog watch (so I’ll be able to draw the time, as the test requires), one with the day and date (so I’ll be able to parrot those when prompted). I remember that when my mother took a similar test long after she’d had a stroke, which caused aphasia, she was asked to recite the names of recent presidents in the order of their terms. She couldn’t do it, and neither could I—then or now. So, next on my summer reading list is Jill Lepore’s "These Truths," a history of the U.S. I just hope I don't get tested before I finish all 960 pages ...
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