Before memory failed me, remembering things came easily. While I cannot pinpoint the exact date of this memory loss—a classic symptom of cantus rememberus squatus—it began sometime in my early 30’s, coinciding with my children’s births, known as placenta de brain drainus. Today, my ability to recall even the most insignificant items remains elusive, punctuated by moments of enlightenment at bedtime. As a result, I keep a notepad and pen handy by my bed so when Mother Insight visits, I’m ready.
For some reason, thoughts pop into my head upon impact with a pillow. It’s as though a synapse suddenly clicks, sending a flood of information to a previously deprived neuron. To wit—while reading James Joyce, I remember I need to pick up the dry cleaning. The connection? Oh, a day in Dublin! Gotta get those starched shirts! And just as that dream begins about John Travolta sitting in my history class, CLICK, I realize I forgot to return an important phone call. These moments of lucidity are clouded by absolute randomness, making my hastily scribbled notes read as a fragmented journal entry, like Martha Stewart on too much caffeine. Call Sheila for lunch! Buy milk! Charge cell phone! Edit column! Grade papers! Put clothes in dryer!
Other notes reveal dimmer mental snippets requiring an expert code breaker on par with World War II Allied Powers. “Blt money” means I need to pay the tuition for my daughter’s ballet class. “Plug” reminds me to charge the video camera. “Pics” suggests putting out clean shirts for the children to wear on picture day which is always a good idea. Sometimes even I can’t figure out what I wrote, an especially scary thought when three exclamation points follow the inscription. This is why writing in the dark is discouraged. One morning I awoke to find “Need toilet paper!!!” etched upon the cover of my favorite Pat Conroy book. I’m sorry, Pat. If I had gone just three more inches, I’d have made it to the notepad. No one ever writes on my books, not even me, buddy.
The lowest point came last week when I jotted some one word notations—“Food!!!” Decoded: pull something out of the freezer to fix for dinner. “Children!!!” Translation: pick them up at early release from school. I placed this last note on my car window just to be safe.
It’s getting worse. I now have notepads in my car, by each phone, even by the washer and dryer. My home is decorated in French Country sticky notes. It’s an unusual wall covering choice to be sure.
Technology has lessened the symptoms somewhat so, occasionally, I’ll send myself an email, but that works only if I remember to check my email. See how complicated this is getting? I make notes to remember to check my notes
A hundred years from now, I envision an archaeological team standing over what use to be my home. They’ll pick at a faded yellow scrap buried deep in the earth. Looking more closely, they’ll squint to read the incoherent etching on the document.
“Ah yes, we have found an artifact used to enhance the cognitive development of the 21st century American woman,” says the archaeologist. “This tool provided a way to maximize time for the American family. Children were fed. Husbands made appointments on time. Corporations ran more efficiently. The only apparent downside was a noted change in sleep patterns of many women found sleeping while clutching a small clump of paper.”