Drawing Blanks

“You have to get used to it. Your memory ages along with the rest of you. Don’t panic.”

Hugh was on the phone with his doctor. He’d called because he had begun to forget things: the key card for his office, the name of the barista who had been kindly keeping him in caffeine and croissants for years, his passwords for a few accounts. He was alarmed because he had always been able to take his good memory for granted.

“I understand that as a general claim, doc. But I have never had memory trouble before. Is this a sign of cognitive decline, or some other, serious problem?” Hugh had been careful to close and lock his office door. He was cradling his cell and talking softly to his doctor via speaker phone, with the volume turned down. He found holding the phone to his ear awkward and uncomfortable, and had read disturbing things online about the effects of cell phone radiation on the brain.

“No signs of serious trouble showed up on your recent MRI, and your blood work looks good. Even your cholesterol is quite modest for a man in his fifties,” his doctor said, in a rather sunny, encouraging tone.

That hadn’t been what Hugh wanted to hear. If this was an enemy he could recognize and fight, he had a chance. If it was just the slow and inevitable decay wrought by time, he would simply have to live with it. He needed an adversary to battle, not reassuring talk about his cholesterol level.

Hugh took a sip of his oat milk latte. Adiza. That was his trusted barista’s name! She’d told him about coming to Canada from Ghana, about her disappointment when she discovered that most Canadians couldn’t handle much conversational French; he had known her, and liked her, for many years. How could he have forgotten her name?!

The latte was delicious, as always. He’d taken a while to adjust to oat milk, but it might be keeping his cholesterol level in check.

“What can I do, doc? Are there dietary changes or brain exercises or other measures that will improve my spontaneous recall and keep me from making embarrassing mistakes?” Hugh turned up the volume just a bit. It was after hours, and he was confident that no one could overhear this conversation, except for a janitor or a security guard on patrol. What would they care?

His doctor sighed audibly.

“Look Hugh, there is interesting research about various vitamins and minerals. Fatty fish is good for your memory, as are leafy greens. Ginkgo biloba might produce some results. Are you still playing scrabble online with Emma?”

Emma, his doctor’s receptionist, was a real monster at scrabble, and Hugh had been trying to get the best of her for years. She still won two thirds of their games. Hugh was an aesthete, eager to come up with beautiful, esoteric words. Emma was a cold, calculating strategist. Hugh was sure she could close her eyes and see a clear map of the bonus squares at will.

“Yes, yes. You know, there’s been plenty of talk online of late about cognitive decline. Joe Rogan recently pointed out to J.D. Vance that Trump looks great despite a term in office and all of the shenanigans he’s gotten up to, before and since. Poor Biden seems much less robust and lucid. What’s the secret there? Rogan made a good point: after a short time in office, most presidents seem to age at an accelerated rate. Obama’s hair is all wintry now, but when he was elected, you couldn’t spot a grey hair for love or money. Does Trump have a secret?”

Hugh heard a janitor emptying pails into a trash bag outside. He wondered if his brain was shedding senescent, malfunctioning grey cells as efficiently.

“Keep it in mind that Trump is always covered in bronzer and other cosmetics, and if you think he’s in excellent shape cognitively, you should look back at that debate with Harris. His ranting is often quite bizarre and incoherent, if you listen carefully. Of course, there may be another explanation for the fact that the office took less of a toll upon him than others who have occupied it. I spoke to a colleague in gerontology the other day about this, but his views are…controversial, especially if you announce them to someone sporting a red hat.”

Hugh could hear the tension in his doctor’s voice as he made these remarks: he was clearly caught between a desire to spill the provocative theory and an aversion to offending his patients.

“Come on, doc,” said Hugh, “You know me! I’m not like that guy who told you he could treat his multiple myeloma with a tincture of baking soda!”

His doctor laughed, recalling that patient and the anecdote he’d shared with Hugh.

“You know, that guy stopped seeing me following that conversation. He stopped by my office to tell me that I am a puppet of big pharma and rant for a while about the corruption of the medical establishment. Emma almost called security!”

Hugh took a luxurious pull on his latte and smiled. He might not have the memory he’d bragged about in college any longer, but he could still pull a good story out of a reluctant interlocutor.

“What a nut! OK doc, give me your friend’s wild theory about Trump’s immunity to the ravages of high office. It will be safe with me. I won’t even tell Emma.”

Hugh savored the chuckle that emanated from his phone.

“Fair enough,” said his doctor. “My colleague’s theory is that Trump has never understood what being president actually entails. Allegedly, he asked his Secretary of Defense who the "good guys" were during World War One. Everyone else, from Washington to Biden, has had a sense of how dangerous and difficult, how powerful and important the office of President of the United States really is, not only for the citizens the occupant of that office governs, but for everyone who wants a fragile, improbable experiment with liberal democracy to succeed. It could be the case, according to my colleague, that occupying that office didn’t cause Trump to age rapidly because he simply doesn’t get it. He's too busy watching television to do much thinking.”

Hugh paused to absorb his doctor’s theory. He heard the janitor leave the outer office, and thought he ought to shut it down himself.

“I’ll buy that,” he said. “I should let you go, doc. If I notice any other signs that my memory is slipping, I’ll let you know. Has Doctor Drexel told you any good ones lately?” Doctor Drexel had the office next to his doctor’s, and was notorious for his irreverent wit and fondness for bagels from a joint called Schwartz’s a few blocks from the complex where both offices were housed. Hugh never missed a chance to grab one on his way to an appointment. A good bagel can restore one's will to persevere in a mad world.

His doctor was clearly delighted to have been asked. His tone warmed as the last of Hugh’s latte cooled.

“He told me a beauty the other day. A fellow goes to see his doctor. Walking into the office, he asks his doctor about the results of some recent tests. ‘You’re fine,’ his doctor replies, ‘but I must insist that you stop masturbating.’ The patient is shocked, and obviously offended. ‘Why should I?’ he asks, with audible incredulity. ‘Because I’m trying to examine you!’ answers his doctor.”

Good conversations always end in laughter, thought Hugh. “I’ll remember that one!” he said.