Memory loss

Memory 21st of December 2010
I am a man in a very great hurry. A man who relied upon others to reveal past events.
At the age of 83 and into my second marriage I must needs forget all that happened during my first marriage in order to save my second marriage. That has disappeared into the clouds. Now I find my more recent occurrences are disappearing too.
A man who hardly exists! Except in the memory of others. But as most others are no longer here that past has gone. Snow lies on the ground and I have cleared it from the drive. Now was that yesterday, last week or 40 years ago?

23rd of December, 2010
When I said yesterday turned out to be untrue because, I do remember yesterday! And no doubt I shall remember today for the same reason because I’m absolutely exhausted from clearing up the drive once again. That was after a rather bad night and lack of sleep due to my diverticular problem plus frequent urination. I’d take colpermin 1 hour before meals for the diverticular problem and contiflo at 8.00 PM for the urination problem. I have recently seen a consultant with regard to the latter and he has changed the time in respect of the contiflo. Previously it was taken in the morning. I have yet to see him again with the chart which I must fill in whenever I urinate.
In respect of the memory I have had two tests, one only recently. At the earlier test I was sent to the border line and I await the result of the second test.
I must of necessity forget all that has happened before meeting my second wife. Into of what I have written above it would seem to be an easy thing to do. But because of the onset of dementia flashes of memory that there appear are more likely to be of earlier in my life than more recent. ” do you remember when” can best be avoided because ” when” can be yesterday or 40 years ago.
I am a man who exists in the “cloud” quite literally. Recent computer technology has invented the blog. In that I have an existence. A place of recall.
Hence I have written this:
“Memories I have some very early memories, which would be difficult to believe if they had not been corroborated by members of my family. My earliest memory is of being in a punt on the River Thames at Oxford as a baby in arms and we’ll take it into the water and pour down beneath the surface. My memory is of looking up through the water and seeing the sun shining through the whirlpool above. This glorious memory stayed with me throughout most of my life until one day I asked my uncle whether he remembered when we were swimming in the River Thames and he pulling me beneath surface of the water. He told me that he had not so but that I had fallen into the water and was drowning. He had dived into the water to rescue me. For those who aren’t familiar with the craft a punt is a rectangular flat-bottomed boat that is propelled by using a long stick pushed into the riverbed. My memories will be difficult to date if it were not for the fact that during my early days my family moved three times. These moves has handed off on TV server it will anti Clinton tiny number know caution year as warmly R-would have been times of stress and no doubt stuck in my memory”. In a blog elsewhere.
One can almost think of them as ” previous lives”.
These other lives exist, or existed, in others memories which, at that time, I was able to tap into. If those people are not around then the memory is either last or partially lost.
If an event or time is particularly dramatic than the memory is not lost for ever. For instance, several years of my first wife’s illness with cancer was so dramaticly upsetting and exhausting then he had become a period which I did not wish to remember. However, I’m obviously have not wiped it away because a picture on the hospital wall brought back these memories.
Nonetheless, it tends to underline the fact that the memory last occurs when the most recent events.

30th October 2012

I have recently read this story which is worth keeping:

Like many men of my generation, I was not very close to my father. He was a quiet man who rarely showed affection. When he

did, it was subtle, like the way he would gently put his hand on my head, or when his eyes would soften upon seeing me
after his long and exhausting work day.

As I grew older, however, his silence became an invisible barrier between us. By 10, I was convinced he didn’t love me.
Sitting in the back seat of our station wagon on a family trip, I made a bet with myself: If he said anything to me —
directly to me — within the following 24 hours, it meant he loved me.

He went 41 hours.

I grew up, went to college far from home, worked hard at finding a career, finally returned to Los Angeles and settled down
with a family of my own. My father and I spoke every so often, but usually just as a prelude to my longer conversations
with my mother. We never called the other directly just to talk. There was a wall of silence between us
Then one day, 15 years ago, a call came from my mother. My father had fallen down and was at UCLA Hospital. I was used to
the idea that he would die young of heart disease. His mother had died at 55, and he’d had two bypass operations, the first
when I was 16. So I was unprepared for his diagnosis: He had a variant of Alzheimer’s disease.

I have read many accounts of Alzheimer’s disease, and I do not want to detract from the wrenching pain Alzheimer’s disease
causes. But my experience with the disease was different: Because the disease disinhibited my father, it brought down the
wall of silence between us.

It happened on a spring day about six months after he’d been diagnosed. He was in a convalescent hospital following surgery
to his knee. I had decided to visit him with my 5-year-old son, Jesse. The three of us sat out on the cold, shaded patio of
the convalescent home, my father wrapped in an old sweater and watching intently as I made small talk and my son clambered
over me like a little monkey on a jungle gym. My father’s eyes widened as he studied the obvious affection I shared with my
son.paternal grandfather died when my father was 16, leaving him responsible for his mother and sister. My grandfather, who
was probably manic-depressive, had gotten into some kind of trouble and had told my father he intended to end his life. My
father begged him not to do it. My father appealed to his mother, to their rabbi, and to others, but no one responded. A
week later, my grandfather shot himself. The Jewish community forbade my grandfather to be buried in a Jewish cemetery and
shunned my father’s family. Deeply ashamed, my father moved his mother and sister out to California. He withdrew into
himself. He became an atheist and an embittered critic of organized religion.

And he dwelt behind a veil of silence.

But now I saw that his silence was a “Rashomon.” For me, his silence meant he did not love me. But for him, silence was the
only way he could protect me from the kind of pain he’d suffered.

That moment, sitting with him in his room, the shadows of an early spring sunset lengthening — that moment was our
redemption. He apologized to me for creating pain when his intent had been to prevent it. And I apologized for not having
had more faith in his silent love.

I noticed his eyes getting heavy. I started to rise, but he held up his hand to say one more thing. “I know I have a
disease,” he murmured, “that makes it difficult for me to think and remember. But you know But you know –?” he smiled — “I
am thankful I have this disease. Because without it, I don’t think we would have been able to say these things to each
other.” He tapped his heart. “I love you.”

And with that, he closed his eyes and fell silent again.

4th June 2015

There has of course continued, time and  greater health problems just adds to problems with walking but memory remains as reported previously.