Somewhere, I Left My Mind

I used to remember everything. Names, dates, moments, dreams. I was the friend you could count on to recall what movie we watched ten years ago and what popcorn flavor we hated. I stored memories like they were precious, sorted neatly in labeled drawers. Now? The drawers are still there, but the labels have worn off. The contents? Scattered.

The first time it hit me, I was brushing my teeth. I stared at my own reflection and couldn’t, for the life of me, remember if I had already brushed or if I was just starting. It seems trivial. It wasn’t. It scared the hell out of me.

My grandmother had dementia. So did my father. I watched them vanish in slow motion. First, it was keys and birthdays. Then, it was recognizing their own children. I remember holding my dad's hand as he looked through me, as if I were some fogged-up window to a life he once knew but couldn’t name.

I didn’t want that to be my story. But here we are.

It started with little things—leaving the stove on, misplacing my car keys. I laughed it off. Stress, I told myself. Just tired. Who isn't? But then came the heavier fog. Getting lost on the way to the pharmacy I'd been to a dozen times. Sitting down to work and forgetting what I do for a living. I'd open my laptop and just stare. The cursor blinking like it was waiting for me to remember who I was.

I saw a neurologist. She was kind, clinical. She said it was "likely age-related cognitive decline." But I’m 52. That’s not exactly ancient. She recommended puzzles. I laughed, thinking I’d rather solve the puzzle of my disappearing memory than do Sudoku. But I tried. I filled notebooks with logic games, tried to exercise my brain like a muscle. It didn’t help much.

The paranoia started creeping in after that. I accused my son of moving my phone when I had left it in the fridge. Yes, the fridge. I thought my wife was whispering things about me when she was just talking on the phone. That hurt. Realizing my own mind was turning on me.

I don’t know if I have Alzheimer’s. They won’t diagnose it until they’re sure. Whatever that means. I’m supposed to go for another brain scan in a few weeks. I’m hoping for clarity. Maybe even hope. Though what I really want is a miracle.

Despite it all, I write. I write because if one day I wake up and don’t know who I am, I want to read about myself. I want to remember the woman who fought to hold onto herself. I want to know I didn’t go quietly.

Every morning now, I jot down one thing I remember. A smell. A face. A line from a song. I stitch these into a quilt of identity, hoping it’ll keep me warm when the cold blankness tries to take over.

If this is the beginning of the end, then let this be the beginning of the story too. One where I didn’t give up, even when the lights flickered. One where I lit a match, and said, "I’m still here."

Still hoping to hear from me.