Margie, the actress

Margie: “I’m reading a book I wanted to talk to you about. It’s really absorbing, and I think you’d like it. Now I can’t remember the name of it, or the author, or what it’s about. It’s sitting on the table by my chair. I pick it up, and I understand it and appreciate it when I’m reading it, but I walk out the door and I can’t remember a thing about it.” She sipped her cappuccino. 

I said it’s perfectly normal for a person in their nineties. It’s just short-term memory. “Normal or not, it’s hard to make conversation if you can’t remember what you wanted to say.” Yes, I nodded. “But it’s terrific you remember the words to tell me that you don’t remember.”

She said sometimes she feels like an actress. “I pretend to understand what’s going on around me. Like when my children are talking to each other. I pretend I’m following their conversation. I nod and smile, I try to make the right noises. But I can’t remember what the subject is. I hit the button for Record, but all I get is Play. I don’t want to be a bore.”

I told her she’s not a bore. I said it’s fascinating to be present in this moment without reference to before or after. “You’re teaching me more about being present.”

She laughed and patted my hand, “You’re weird, but in a good way.”