Beech Tree News Network

In the movie, “50 First Dates,” a woman suffers a traumatic brain injury on her birthday.  Every day thereafter, she wakes up remembering only what has happened before the accident, and believing that each new day is her birthday.  Her family and friends play along by making sure the same newspaper is in view, getting out the birthday cake they keep in the freezer, and taking care not to let her stumble upon any information that might disrupt her reality, for fear that she might go over the edge.
    The plan works until a newcomer to the area asks the woman out on a date.  Unaware of her condition, he is puzzled when she doesn’t recognize him the next day.  After learning about her injury, the man devises a plan in which he records himself explaining to the girl about her injury and includes what has happened in her life the previous day.  She wakes each morning to a note attached to a VCR that tells her to push “play.”  She watches the tape, understands where she is at the present, and is ready to tackle each new day.
    I wish my husband would do that for me.  I’m sure Garey would if he could, but he’s in the same shape I’m in.  We can’t remember anything, and it seems to be getting worse. 
    I’ve told you before that I live my life via Post-its.  Except for a small space just large enough to see how to put on my makeup, the mirror on my side of the bathroom counter is covered with Post-its.  There are more stuck to the vent hood over my stove, and a piece of copy paper on the kitchen table holds eight more.  They contain directives like: Call CBOCS on Monday, put up okra, drill Woodford bottles, finish Sharon’s spoon rest by Tuesday, and order Christmas cards by the end of August—sale ends.  (I had to add “sale ends” to that last note or I would be asking myself, “Why do I have to order by the end of August?”)
    My Post-it device works well except for the times I don’t have access to a pen and a Post-it, when I’m mowing the yard, for instance.  If I remember something I’m not supposed to forget while I’m mowing the yard, I have to create some sort of chant that keeps the information in my head until I can get into the house, where I can write it down.  Ball game cheers work well for these times—Take phone back!  Take phone back! Way, way back!—as well as Queen’s tune, “We Will Rock You”—Call Mom!  Call Mom!  Call Mom!—and the “William Tell Overture”—Put the sheets on the bed.  Put the sheets on the bed.  You get the idea.
    One of the most trying times I’ve ever had was during my stint with carpal tunnel, a couple of years ago, and the ensuing surgery.  I had the surgery right before Christmas—didn’t exactly think that through—and I was unable to write anything down, which meant I had a continuous list of items and directives swirling around in my head.  Garey kept asking if I was alright, my daughter commented that I seemed distant, and there was that unmistakable question in my friends’ eyes that asked, “Is she on crack?”  I felt like my brain would implode.
    The hard part of all this is that I lived several years without being like this.  It’s like the refrigerator magnet says: Of All The Things I’ve Lost, I Miss My Mind The Most.  Garey has pretty much always been this way.  He misses my mind also, because I served as the rewind button when he needed to remember where he had put something or when and what time he had to be somewhere.
    I used to tell Garey that the reason he was so happy was because he couldn’t remember where he put his shoes, let alone who wronged him the day before.  Come to think of it, I am far less disgruntled with my life than I was during the years when my brain was firing on all cylinders.  These days, it’s important to look for the silver lining.  Now, if I could just remember where I put it.