Since last post many changes erupted in my world — I grew old/ I grew old, perhaps I’ll wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. (Why is it that I write in quotations and no one has the same bibliography?) March 27, I became 63. I was content to be miserable but my friends would not allow it.
I do not know what I do not know. My mother had Alzheimer’s disease. It was ironic when she was diagnosed in 1991 because the doctors said that she had had it for several years already and why hadn’t we noticed? My mother was an erratic, volatile and hysterical woman. We had just thought she was being herself. Folks laugh when I’d say that, but to be honest, when one only knows another in one light after a long time it begins to seem normal.
Two weeks ago I went to the UCLA Gerontology/Psychiatry Clinic to see if my mom is coming to eat up my brain (in a manner of speaking). I have been plagued with increasing memory loss. Things that I’ve known or once were easy to know or do — like remember certain poems I’ve written, say Havana or Rat City — I cannot remember. I will start a sentence and half way through, I forget what I was trying to say. Damn embarrassing if you are in front of an audience or students. I’m still waiting for the results. Nervously waiting.
Do you want to know what really stinks? Having to go to the Gerontology clinic.