I panic.

I panic quite often actually.

This morning I drew two clock faces, assigning myself random times to make them read: 4:45. 11:10. A couple days ago I got back into counting backwards from 100 by 7s. Gabe could do it quite well, but in his case I have no concerns about deterioration. Fortunately I am still quite apt. At that trick, anyway.

I’ve been watching The Alzheimer’s Project, a series of HBO documentaries, which are, luckily, available to stream from HBO.com since I do not subscribe to an HBO-containing level of cable service. So, as the film depicts various people jumping through those very familiar cognitive testing hoops, I cannot help playing along. For reassurance. Yes! I say. I remember how it goes: Anna Thompson is a school cook who was robbed of $56 on State Street. Right? And yes, I’m right. Furthermore, those three words were table, penny, and apple. But still I panic. Because sometimes my brain won’t give me the name of the neighbor 3 doors down whom I never see...at least not right off the bat. First name: Jan. Last name:___________. I’m going to look it up if it doesn’t come before I get to the end of this entry. And that will make me mad.

Hendra. Thanks brain. It might really be perimenopausal fog-brain that is making me all ocd about cognitive reassurance measures. This is one reason I will keep studying Japanese. Present me with a page that looks like this: ねこはうるさいですね。My first impulse is to panic. My brain protests: What are you, nuts? it thinks, or something very close to that. But, if I relax and look at it, I can, calmly, decipher that into: neko wa urusai desu ne? and then the next step: The cat is noisy, isn’t it?

But my state of mind re minds nowadays, is to recognize them as fragile, maybe ephemeral, things. I will be much indebted to mine if it hangs around as long as I need it.

Good thought: I can write crappy for the rest of my life.

Visit 2 with the college consultant today, and a delightful homeward drive during which I had the pleasure of listening to Gabe outline which other middle-aged females I look older and wrinklier than (most, it turns out.) Jeff, checked out as per normal, had no helpful defense to add to the equation, so I simply had to bite my tongue so as not to inform the punk he’s doughy and lazy and I’m tired of raising him.

But that’s the point of these appointments...to find some setting in which he can--removed from my burned out decrepitude--mature and grow some life-enhancing strengths.

As for me, I am certain I am mature enough. Though the fates don’t appear to agree, and think that I need more practice in the areas of self-reliance, patience, and a zen-informed coolness with the prospect of a life devoid of success in creative ventures. And woohoo--I like a life that aims to hone. Whee.

Meanwhile, I am to that truly plodding stage in the book-creation process. The stage during which the initial zing of the concept has worn the rubber off its shoes, and you must scrape brain dregs for the next sentence, hoping it will be magically infused with a whiff of inspiration which must come from someplace to which you personally have no access. Clarence, you there? Have some coffee if it will help.

Then, eventually, there will come a point where (I hope) I can say...this ball, it’s a’rollin’!, and from there the process feels a darn sight less forced.

Actually, the nicest thing about Clarence is, he’s completely neutral on the subject of how old I look.

I hope tree clumps make good lawn mulch.

The trees over the garage are dropping leafy sprigs, and fluttery bunches of fluffy brown stuff as if from buckets. All over the back patio, which is experiencing its first Spring. Gobs of vegetation and a tribe of carpenter bees are giving the area a special character only enhanced by the leyland cypress bowing oppressively over it all.

edit: And cripes! A tree just fell down in the back yard!

It is, like the basement, just a small part of one family habitat, demanding upkeep. So, I do what I can, without the spirit for it, because the house is not about what the house was supposed to be about for me. Hence, in order to avoid thinking about what the house was supposed to be about, I dream of the Airstream. It represents--in the dream--a retreat where I’d go to shove off the sense of trying to keep a two-person life afloat with only one person.

Man, do I hate fussers and mopers. And there is a self-indictment. Plus, the ball may not be dropped, and now is not the time to relinquish the position of hearth-keeper. ‘Tis disconcerting and disorienting if the mother-ship downsizes to a Jetsons-sized bubble car too soon.

But frankly--and I say this with all the humor I can muster, and completely in the interest of honesty and disclosure as opposed to bellyaching--this is a bit of a ridiculous position. You cannot be an adequate companion to someone with Alzheimer’s. This is because his receiver is broken. All you can do is be there. He will still feel left out, and under-companioned, because he knows he’s missing a no-longer-extant relationship. Because you, the other person, cannot have the former relationship all by yourself. And, even if you could simulate it, his receiver would still be broken. So, you keep being there, as seemingly useless as it is, and hope that maybe at some point you’ll get a chance to do something at which you might actually succeed.

Anyway, sorry ‘bout the fussy-pants stuff. I’m actually very pleased that I successfully removed the old, and installed the new casement window sash, even though it’s a bogus knock-off rather than being an actual Hurd replacement part. It is nice to watch the clumpy leaflets rain from the trees, NOT through a rock-sized hole in the glass.