Thinking it was just a little dizziness, a little back pain, some short-term memory loss—“give me a pill and I’ll be all better.” However, after extensive blood testing, expensive brain scans, and expansive psychological exams, it was finally determined that the cause of my complaint was, quite literally, all in my head.
“Alzheimer’s disease.” Probably the worst two words my doctor could tell me. Those were the words she said last November 25, and the world hasn’t quite been the same since. I’m just not so sure about anything anymore.
To make it clear up front, this essay is not intended to solicit your prayers—giving up on that particular problem-solving therapy some time ago—nor to obtain sympathy from any dear readers who may chance upon these words, nor to plead for financial assistance. It is intended to be something of a diary—definitely not daily—of the progression of my regression.
It’s ironic that only a few short months before this discovery, feeling a growing need to express myself and write down these stories—and, to some extent, discovered the ability to do so. To tap out on my iPad screen the words that not only describe events, but also the emotions attached to them. Perhaps these are the last of the memories that can be remembered. Not knowing where this clumsy competence came from—and suspecting it may not endure much longer—the need to take advantage of it while my frazzled synapses still allow is deeply felt.
Now the question of cause and effect wanders into the functioning part of my cerebrum. Is this newfound inspiration to scribble the result of the newly discovered decay of “the little gray cells”? Or is it something that has been unconsciously developing over a lifetime of experiences?
No one would have ever considered me as the literary type. Reading and appreciating the written word was a struggle all my life. Reading skills didn’t truly come to me until the third grade. Back in the 50s, no one knew much about dyslexia. But due to the nightly efforts of my ever-patient father and my teachers at A. C. Jackson Elementary in Lubbock, eventually learning how to put printed letters together so they sounded like real people talking and it started to become a habit. As a bonus to learning how to stay focused on words, keeping your eye on the ball also came into focus and it taught me how to hit a baseball with a bat —as long as the old man was pitching easy ones.
Reading for pure enjoyment didn’t happen until the late 70s. Working in Jubail while it was becoming an industrial city, living in a work compound. There were no bars, malls, discos, or movie theaters that could be frequented without a plane ticket to somewhere else. Paperback books from the camp library became the evening’s entertainment.
The Shining by Stephen King stands out in particular. Never before had I been so frightened by the written word as when reading, “Where’s Johnny!” the hair on the back of my neck was standing up. Just words on paper—but they did a number on my mind that night. Jack and his family were isolated at the Overlook Hotel in snow and ice, much like being isolated in the sand and heat at Camp 9. Both of us facing evil spirits—his from beyond the pale, mine from a siddiqui distiller in Ras Tanura.
It’s hoped to continue writing going forward as long as coherent words will flow from the single middle finger of my right hand as it gently taps—tapping away like a soft heartbeat on the glass screen of an Apple iPad, lovingly held in my left hand, which isn’t doing much else except supporting its opposite. An atempt to tap that little microphone icon at the bottom of the keyboard and dictating words is also being considered to help convey to you readers whatever performance is currently being seen on the stage of my memory’s theater.
Despite attempts at humor, I am curious what to expect within the remaining consciousness of self. Will life become one long confusion—attempting once-normal activities that slowly turn alien? Will there come a time when there is no awareness of the people and things that were once so near and dear? As the darkness of those possibilities begins to press in, my son Patrick—the RN—lit things up when he offered reassurance:
“It’s not your fault, Dad. I’ve taken care of many patients with dementia. It can be difficult, but I’ll do my best to care for you later down the road if it becomes worse.”
I’m not sure what I ever did to deserve that young man in my life, but with him, Haiying, and Johanna beside me, I’ll get through this one way or another.
So here’s the plan. I’ll keep tapping away until the tapping turns into napping. If I forget your name, forgive me — I may remember the dog’s before I remember yours. If I repeat myself, just nod wisely and say, “Yes, you told me that,” and I’ll pretend I meant to.
I may lose my keys, my glasses, or the point of the story — but as long as I can still find my way to this little glowing screen and coax a few words out of the fog, I figure I’m still in the game.
And when the day comes that I can’t remember the plot, well, maybe I’ll just start a new one. After all, I’ve never let the facts get in the way of a good story.
© 25 January 2026 J. MIchael Boland
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