How Many?

I’m suddenly frightened, scared to death, actually. I feel a little dizzy and breathless. I crack open another beer, in order to forget what might be facing me. I’m losing my memory and there’s nothing I can do about it.

It was subtle at first: what singer sang Fast Car, a tune that was popular more than 30 years ago? Try as I might, I couldn’t recall. It’s not like my short-term memory is evaporating, which is an early indication of Alzheimers. And it’s not like I can’t remember what day it is or the name of the president. Those were the questions the neurologist asked my dad when he was diagnosed at age 80, more than 20 years before. So what am I worried about? On the other hand, all my mom and dad’s brothers and sisters suffered profound dementia prior to their deaths.

As I drink my beer, I wonder: how many beers have I already had? I can’t remember. And have I eaten? Did I take my medicine yet? What is the name of that singer? Next I try to retrive a document on my PC, but I get confused; I forget how to do it! Dammit!

Dad was just 10 years older than I am now when his memory began to fail. Today when I was out and about, people stared at me as if they didn’t know what I was talking about, as if I’d said something which didn’t compute, didn’t make sense. Instantly, I forgot what I’d just said. Did I say something to upset that young female cashier? Did me mistake me for some kind of masher? Do they even use that expression anymore? God, I’m old!

Back home again, I stride into the next room with purpose, only to discover that I didn’t know why I’ve come. And I don’t even remember coming back home. I open another beer; this makes…how many?