By Lisa Forrest
http://stream.publicbroadcasting.net/production/mp3/wbfo/local-wbfo-693444.mp3
Buffalo, NY – Her silver hair is pinned up in a loose bun; a few frazzled pieces fall haphazardly around her wrinkled face. The oversized navy blue windbreaker she is wearing reveals her tiny frame drowning in a red flannel shirt and a pair of baggy pants. She is holding a book close to her body, like a schoolgirl walking to class. Mumbling softly to herself, she appears to have just wandered into the college library off the city streets. She looks confused maybe even a little scared.
"Can I help you?" I somewhat cautiously ask.
She half smiles and nods her head, nervously taking a seat in the chair in front of the reference desk. She fishes out a small folded piece of paper from her jacket pocket. Smoothing it out on the desk between us, the thin skin of her hands as crumpled as the paper itself, the woman tries to speak.
A backlog of words seems to be painfully lodged in her head. She stammers, "Ah... ah... um."
I calmly say, "I'm sorry-- I don't understand what it is you're trying to tell me."
She puts her forehead in her hands and rapidly taps the desk. Finally, she bursts forth with a somewhat comprehensible sentence:
"Um... Um... I need to take a test. My doctor said there is a test. Will you help me pass this test?" She asks, handing me the paper from her pocket. It is a tattered page torn out of a Reader's Digest magazine. I quickly scan it to discover that she has given me an article about Alzheimer's disease.
Suddenly, like water flowing from an unclogged pipe, she speaks: "The doctor said there is a test. I want to work. They are going to give me a test. I can't remember. Can you help me study for the test? I want to go back to work. I can't remember, but everyone gets this when they get older, you know I'm going crazy sitting at home... I worked all my life. I want to work. When I get the job interview, they are going to give me a test to see if I can remember. Can you help me study for the test?"
Voices of the young and able-minded, complaining about "having to work" begin to interrupt my thoughts. This old woman sincerely wanted nothing more than to get up and go to work. The words are vague; the faces hazy -- but she recalls doing something more. The absence of it hangs over her shoulder. I hold back a sigh.
"I can find you more information like this," I tell her, the piece of paper still heavy in my hand (being careful not to say the word Alzheimer's out loud) but... "I don't have a book that will help you study for the memory test."
"I see. Yes, that would be very good," she eagerly replies seeming to already have forgotten what it was that she truly wanted. I search the library databases to find her basic information about memory loss wishing that instead, I could remember something for her... but all I can do is give her a few black and white printouts.
With a new year upon us (and an old one to remember), I'm reminded of a quote by Oscar Wilde, "Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us." But what if the diary of one's mind is just an incomprehensible swirl of words -- jammed at the back of the throat or clutched in a silent pen? Which is more painful the specific memory of something lost, or the inability to remember what has been lost?
She gets up to leave, magazine articles in hand, opening the date book she has had cradled in her lap.
"I carry this around... I'm not sure why," she shrugs -- pages of graying time left ghostly blank.
As she walks away, I write it all down. I write it all down for the both of us.
Listener-Commentator Lisa Forrest is a poet and a librarian at Buffalo State College.
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