A couple of one-liners in a few posts below–while I have learned to remain writerly and allow readers to read whatever they want into my writing–just seem to scream for some form of explanation.
Although long-time readers are well used to my ups and downs and general overall tendency to go weird upon occasion (or when the imp in me demands), it’s obvious that a weblog is a personal journal even when it is geared to a specific objective stance. We creep into our words despite our best efforts to the contrary.
One of my methods of thinking about things is to write it down (no shit!). However, because this is also a publicly read journal, I often hide things in strange and vague places. Just as in the few entries below, there is a seed of something that need be expressed but cloaked.
Worry is usually the instigator for many a fine and odd entry. And, worries never go away, they’re just dealt with, often in unusual ways. I’ll be honest about the few from yesterday. Aside from always having been fascinated and frightened by the power of the mind, the control and lack thereof, personal dealings with Alzheimer’s and a recent article about its close possible link to genetics set me off enough to voice in my own little way just one little worry that just shows up now and again.
Not to worry, I’m doing whatever little I can do about the situation, keeping up on progress in the cure of the disease as well as checking my own progress now and then by visiting Old Yankee Candle and guessing the scents (the sense of smell seems to be one of the first possible indicators).
And, keeping a sense of humor about it all. So don’t get nervous that I’m slipping into some dark abyss of senile dementia; most likely I’ll drive myself just plain crazy long before that.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
I’m working my ways backwards here (since I’ve been too busy being plagued by computer problems to actually be using the thing for its intended purpose lately). Anyway, I can’t help but see another correlation. My grandfather had Alzheimer’s in the last years of his life. My mother has mid-stage Alzheimer’s now. My clock is ticking, and I’m also in the awareness stage.
I find it funny (but understandable and touching, too) that my mother simply cannot bear to hear anyone say Alzheimer’s in her presence. She cared for her father in his final years, and connects such negative connotations to the word that she simply cannot tolerate her doctor (or anyone else) referring to her own case of Alzheimer’s. Instead, she insists we refer to it as dementia. For some reason, it is okay for her to have dementia, but if you dare use the word Alzheimer’s, she will vehemently deny that she is plagued with such a thing. So we’ve adopted our language accordingly, since it brings her some measure of peace.
As for me, I’ve always known I was demented anyway. Now I just have the family history to prove it. (*smile*)
Maybe by the time it’s my turn, I’ll only be comfortable with calling it “mindlessness” or “brain bubbles”. I can hear my son now … “No, my mother doesn’t have Alzheimer’s or dementia – she has brain bubbles”. Of course, the possibility exists that I will escape the entire chapter, but I do my fair share of hanging out in the Yankee Candle Shop too, just in case.
Here’s to many more years of Tiger Lilly and Chai Tea!