Re-Writing a Life

I believe in the power of writing to help us make sense of our world or to see more broadly into the world than our single perspective allows us to see unaided. I could wax lyrical about that in the language of the academy that granted me an MA in English, but now that I am a farm wife I have a more pragmatic perspective.

Someone I love has lost his memory. More like it has been stolen from him. The mysterious plaques and tangles of Alzheimer's have blocked the pathways to the file cabinets where his memories are kept. Our minds, I am convinced, are vast unkempt libraries where nothing is lost, but the path may be obscured. For most of us, we can wiggle around and find another way into the file we want when we want it--or shortly after. In my brother's case, the pathways to the memories are more overgrown than for the rest of us. Also, the flexibility of mind to seek out other paths is encumbered. Something dumped out the card catalog to the library of his mind.

On bad days I think that Alzheimer's is the cruelest disease. It can turn someone into a real life zombie. It can destroy not only the person but also those around him or her. It can create a black hole where a person used to be. But my loved one has the good fortune to be loved by several hard headed women. They look after him and refuse to let him go. One of the things to keep him in this world with us is to provide an external route back into the file cabinet of his memory library. That is a convoluted way of saying writing down the memories we share. The stories have been a hit with him and they have also helped to give him back to me. When I remember the stories, I remember. And remembering no matter how or when we go about it is a good thing.