By Lisabet Sarai
It happens more and more often these
days. I'll reach for a word, and it isn't there, or at least I can't
grab hold of it. Usually there are traces, ghosts that taunt me from
the murky depths of my memory. I'll be able to tell you what sound
begins the word, or how many syllables it has. If my husband suggests
alternatives, I can easily dismiss them. That's not the word I'm
thinking of, I confidently assert, but the specific item of
vocabulary I'm seeking remains inaccessible.
This happens not only when I'm writing
but also when I'm speaking. I'll trail off, unable to summon the word
that's dangling there on the tip of my tongue. Occasionally, I'll
come out with a related term, knowing that isn't what I really mean.
Sometimes these substitutions are bizarre.
I'm an author. My sense of self is
inextricably entwined with my ability to weave worlds out of words.
I've always been able to rely on my extensive vocabulary. I barely
thought about it. Now I worry that my verbal facility has begun to
desert me. And that's terrifying.
Is this part of the normal process of
aging? I'll be sixty soon, but that doesn't seem that old compared to
my ninety year old aunt, who still follows politics and who told me,
the day after Obama was elected, that “she felt as happy as if she
had a new lover”. Are these lapses the first signs of a more
serious deficit, Alzheimer's or some other form of dementia? In the
case of the former, I've read that keeping your brain active appears
to have some prophylactic effects. I teach kids in their twenties and
write computer software; surely that's active enough, isn't it? But
it's all a crap shoot, I gather, and worst of all, there's no cure
for what the media suggest is an epidemic.
In the past, when I imagined getting
older, I expected declines in physical capabilities. I can picture
myself blind, deaf, unable to walk, even paralyzed. I've always
consoled myself with the notion that however limited my body becomes,
I'll still have the life of the mind. I'll be able to read, or listen
to, books. I'll be able to write, even if I have to dictate my
stories as opposed to typing them.
Now, as with increasing frequency I struggle to grasp the elusive word, the
exact term to express both the meaning and the mood I'm trying to
set, I glimpse another, far bleaker future
– one in which the glorious universe of ideas and their
multifaceted expression in language gradually crumbles to dust, until
my head is filled with sawdust like the scarecrow of Oz. I honestly
think I'd prefer death to that sort of half-life.
Shanna Germain has a magnificent story
in The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes, entitled
“Remember This”, that treats this theme with tremendous
sensitivity and depth. A woman joins her husband and long-time female
lover in an ecstatic but bittersweet encounter full of echoes from
the past. Although she's barely in her fifties, she has a genetic
predisposition to memory loss. She comforts herself with the thought
of the poison she's secreted from her lovers, not ready for that step
yet, but knowing she won't have to endure the dissolution of what is precious.
And of course Garce's much acclaimed
tale “An Early Winter Train” goes even further, showing us how
desperately sad the physical shell becomes when the mind has mostly
departed. These days I can't even think about that story – it's too
frightening.
And yet, here I am, penning this blog
post, obviously with some verbal memory left. Perhaps I'm
overreacting. I sometimes joke that I know so many words, I could
forget half of them and still have a normal vocabulary. I know my
laughter's a defense, though.
The other thing is – the words aren't
gone. I can't deliberately summon them, but later they may sneak up
on me, bubbling up from my unconscious while I'm thinking about
something completely different. It's as though the glass between my
conscious intent and the depths where language resides has grown
cloudy – almost like cataracts of the mind.
I try not to think about it, because
honestly, I find it too distressing. Instead I muddle along,
pretending there's no problem, hoping that I'm being alarmist. And
when a word escapes, I chase it, unwilling to let it get away.
