Brain on Vacation

The day I flunked my cognitive test

A quick note to say how grateful I am for all of you. Each time I publish one of these newsletters, I think, This is it. I’m done. I have nothing left to say. And then, usually while walking the dog or taking a shower a sentence starts repeating itself in my head.

A story. A memory. A question. And I think, Oh. I guess I have one more.

So thank you for reading, for laughing with me, and for encouraging me to keep going when I’m convinced I’ve run out of things to say.

Apparently, I haven’t yet.

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It’s summer, and my brain has apparently decided to pack up and go on vacation.

My brain has left the building. Apparently the high price of gas and jet fuel wasn’t enough to deter it. It simply slipped away without so much as a “by your leave.”

I have no idea where it went. No clue about its destination. No goodbye, no adiós, no hasta luego. It just vanished.

The strange thing is, no suitcases are missing. My brain traveled light.

At first, I assumed it was a temporary getaway—a long weekend, perhaps. After all, at age 71, my brain has earned a few days of rest. But now I’m beginning to suspect it’s an extended vacation.

There have been plenty of warning signs: putting my shorts on backwards, wandering parking lots in search of my car, and repeatedly opening the refrigerator to look for eggs that were already sitting on the counter.

Then, a small problem with a listing for a pair of bike shoes on Facebook Marketplace.

I wrote what I considered dazzling, sure-to-sell copy, uploaded the photos, and sat back, expecting to be inundated with eager buyers.

Nothing.

I waited.

Still nothing.

More waiting. More nothing.

Finally, I checked the listing and discovered, to my horror, that instead of posting photos of the bike shoes, I had uploaded a picture of dog treats.

Dog treats.

Why there was a photo of dog treats in my camera roll, I cannot say. Apparently, at some point I had taken a picture of a brand I intended to buy, and my vacationing brain decided that was the image prospective cyclists most needed to see.

I quickly deleted the listing and took the shoes to a sporting goods consignment store instead, where, thankfully, the employees were able to distinguish between cycling gear and canine snacks.

Then, the cognitive test at my annual physical.

Who knew that once you hit 70 they start cognitive testing? Not me. And they don’t warn you in advance, either. There are no study guides, no CliffsNotes, no practice exams. They just spring it on you like an unannounced pop quiz.

It didn’t go well.

For starters, I used to stand proudly at 5’10”. Now I’m 5’8½”. Apparently, I’m shrinking. At this rate, by 85, I’ll have to move to Tiny Town with my cartons of nutritional shakes and adult diapers.

Swell.

The nurse, a sassy woman I absolutely adore, sat across from me and asked me to repeat five words:

“Raspberry. Car. Banana. Bulb. Penny.”

Easy. Nailed it.

Since I was wearing my hearing aids, I asked her an important question.

“Am I talking too loudly?”

Without missing a beat, she replied, “Yes. Much too loudly.”

Then she slid a piece of paper across the table.

“I’d like you to draw a clock showing 11:10.”

A clock.

Easy-peasy.

Except I couldn’t do it.

I don’t wear a watch. I use my phone. Every clock in our house is digital. I haven’t actually thought about where the hands go on a clock in years.

I drew a circle and confidently wrote 12, 1, and 2.

Then everything fell apart.

“You can also draw 10:50 if that’s easier,” she offered.

It was not easier.

I stared at the paper. The paper stared back.

What emerged looked less like a clock and more like something a three-year-old could have produced.

I flunked.

Then, just when I thought the humiliation was over, she asked me to repeat the five words again.

Again?

That was practically another era.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Raspberry... Car...”

Then nothing.

My mind went completely blank.

“It’s not a nickel,” she coached. “It’s a...”

Suddenly it came to me.

“PENNY!”

I shouted it in my hearing-aid voice, which is approximately the volume of an air raid siren.

At this point I was convinced they were going to recommend memory care.

Instead, the doctor walked in and asked, “If your heart stops, do you want to be fully resuscitated?”

Huh?

YES. Did she know something I didn’t? Was I on the verge of collapse? Apparently the new computer system hadn’t scanned in that piece of my advance directives.

Wherever my brain is, I hope it sends a postcard. In the meantime, I’m buying a watch.