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Slate is now featuring a video series about Gerda Saunders and her family as her dementia advances. This essay was originally published in the Georgia Review, and is reprinted here with permission. For my 6. 1st birthday, in 2.

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· Slate is now featuring a video series about Gerda Saunders and her family as her dementia advances. This essay was originally published in the Georgi. Issuu is a digital publishing platform that makes it simple to publish magazines, catalogs, newspapers, books, and more online. Easily share your publications and get. NATURA : AMORE: ARTE: ANIMALI: CITTÀ: NATALIZI: RICORRENZE: PAESAGGI: FIORI: VARIE: Dipinto di Salvador Domènec Felip Jacint Dalí, Olio su Tela "Noia alla finestra.

I was given the diagnosis of microvascular disease, after Alzheimer’s the second leading cause of dementia. I was—as my rather blunt neurologist put it—already “dementing.” Insofar as I had thought about dementia until then, I was unaware that the word had a verb form: he/she/it dements, they dement, we all dement.

Yet, no matter my incredulity that this absurd verb could apply to me, now, two years later, “the cloake sitteth no lesse fit” on my chastened back. My initial denial will seem disingenuous in light of the fact that I knew the symptoms of dementia even then—and recognized them in myself. Also, my mother had a form of mental disconnect that made her increasingly out of touch with reality until her death at 8.

Given that, together with the generally known fact that dementia can run in families, why did my doctor’s utterancefall so disconsonantly on my ear? My belated pursuit of a Ph.

D. in English in my 4. Enlightenment philosophers. I remember being intrigued by John Locke and William Whewell’s pursuit of, as Locke puts it, the “originals from whence all our ideas take their beginnings,” a quest that took both men back to Adam’s expulsion from the Garden of Eden. Locke describes fallen Adam as lost in a “strange Country” with “all Things new, and unknown about him”; Whewell pictures Adam doing the first work of postlapsarian orientation by giving names “distinct and appropriate to the facts” to newly encountered objects and concepts.

I knew something about this project. Having emigrated in 1. South Africa to Salt Lake City with my husband, Peter, and our two children, I had experienced the discombobulation of having to decipher situations that must appear mundane to residents equipped with the requisite cultural vocabulary. What, for example, is one to do when an acquaintance stops by your house carrying her own beverage?

How does one proceed from acquaintance to friendship without that most crucial foundation of South African hospitality, a fresh pot of tea? Why is letting your kids run naked through the sprinklers in your own private backyard or displaying baby pictures of your kids naked regarded by visitors as tantamount to sexual exploitation? What about the forlorn feeling when hosts with whom you have had a marvelous evening say goodbye to you at the door rather than walking you to your car? Yet, by my mid- 5. I had cracked these and other social codes to a great extent: I knew that having coffee meant heading to the nearest Starbucks; I had built up a scaffolding of friends so dear they had become family. Most of the time, I no longer felt like a foreigner. I had developed an American self and was settling into it.

But before I had even reached my 6. I had begun again to feel like an alien of sorts, a stranger even to myself. I first noted a troublesome forgetting in my work as the associate director of gender studies at the University of Utah, a position I took at age 5.

Like the spoiler snake of the Bible, an impairment in my working memory—the ability to maintain and manipulate information “live” in a multistep process, such as remembering to carry the tens when you add numbers—slunk into my intellectual Eden. My love of teaching was the reason I left the corporate world for academics, gladly taking a 2. After less than five years in my dream job, forebodings that not all was well started to becloud my class time: Sometimes I would lose the thread of a discussion, forget the point toward which I had intended to steer the students’ thinking; often the name of a novel or author I used to know as well as my children’s names would not come to mind; not infrequently, a student would remind me during the last moments of class that I had not distributed notes or an assignment I had announced. Even the preparation of elaborate scripts did not prevent me from losing my place in my own mnemonic system.

Though I had not yet sought a diagnosis at that time, I took our program director into my confidence about my memory difficulties and she graciously supported me in negotiating smaller teaching loads. Soon there was only one class per year. During my last two years of working, I was not teaching at all.

Would I have made the switch from business to the university if I had known that I would once again be bogged down in management and meetings? On the administrative front, too, my fraying memory caused me stress. During the first gathering of a Women’s Week Committee that I chaired, I had created a detailed agenda to keep me on track: welcome; make introductions; review themes covered in past years; brainstorm ideas for this year, etc.

Sometime between the welcome and the review of previous themes, my mind flipped into confusion. Someone was talking. His voice was distant, and syllables flowed from his mouth without coalescing into meaning. I panicked. I had no idea where we were in the agenda. Desperately scanning my notes, my eye fell on “Introductions.” When the speaker paused, I suggested we introduce ourselves. As the words left my mouth, I remembered that we had already gone around the table.

And so my downward slide continued. I knew I had to retire. My brain: I want to retire. Me: You’re already retired. How you do fail me! Let me count the ways. Watch The Hunters Online Hulu.

My brain: Don’t count the days, make the days count. Einstein: Everything that can be counted does not necessarily matter; everything that matters cannot necessarily be counted. DEMENTIA FIELD NOTES2- 5- 2.

During my going- away meeting with Gender Studies, the faculty gave me this journal. In it I’ll report my descent into the post- cerebral realm for which I am headed. No whimpering, no whining, no despair.

Just the facts. 3- 3- 2. Saturday at the mall I performed the physical motions of shoplifting—walked out of Macy’s with a pair of pants over my arm. I only noticed when I was inside Dillard’s on the opposite side of the mall. I hurried back, ready to explain. There were no salespeople around, and no one noticed when I put them back. Took Bob and Diane to do their grocery shopping.

When we were done, I could not find my keys. The car doors were unlocked, the keys in the ignition. Returning home, I forgot to stop at Bob and Diane’s and pulled into my driveway instead. Last time I took the old people shopping, I did not notice the traffic light changing until Bea reminded me to go. She is 8. 6. At home, too, my various slips proliferated. I spoke to my family and closest friends. Senior moments,” my peers knowingly declared.

Even my then- twentysomething children, Marissa and Newton, assured me they, too, experienced similar lapses. As the incidents accumulated, though, my immediate family acknowledged that they noticed a change. By the time I approached 6. I started considering a doctor’s appointment, my mother’s mental unraveling never far from my mind. On a February day in 1.

Susanna Catharina Steenekamp, was found wandering in her retirement center in Pretoria, severely disoriented. When I arrived in her hospital room days later, she did not seem aware that I had come halfway across the globe. However, she did recognize me—if I were to take as proof that my utterly proper mother introduced me to her nurse as “my daughter who writes fuck,” an apparent reference to the language in my short- story collection. Susanna also announced her every bodily function, saw angels, and poured water over herself “to bring down my temperature.” With family, her loving disposition still came through, but with the black nurses her post- apartheid liberalism evaporated. She acted superior, entitled, rude.

Could this really be the woman who, as a young social worker, had accepted a Cape Colored client’s invitation to climb into her bed to warm up her feet? Despite Susanna’s altered behavior, only my brother Boshoff, himself a doctor, mentioned dementia.