#7 Memory loss is hilarious
Come get yer slop
Sooooooo…
Alas, Body Lore is back, baby! After a bit of a long, unplanned (spooky?) hiatus.
I don’t want to spend our time here excusing my absence from your inbox for too long, but here’s the tl;dr: In May, I got sick. Then, my loved ones got sick. Again and again. The bodily disasters compounded to a point exceeding that which I can usually make fun jokes and stories out of. Writing about the body and illness, even in jest, suddenly felt intolerable for the first time in a very long time. I focused on dedicating my best body-focused work to my ghostwriting clients and my marathon training (more on the latter soon).
But I’ve missed this project. So, I’ve crawled my way back to you.
I must admit, I’ve felt a bit of stage fright about sending my first email in a while. I’ve had this mini essay locked and loaded since, I shit you not, August. But I haven’t felt ready. It’s a little messier than something I’d normally send out, but that also makes it feel truer to the experience it depicts. I was actually on the verge of sending it 3 weekends ago, but then (I shit you not) I got a call my mom needed to go to the ER again after breaking her wrist. (She’s fine. Her karate chops will only get stronger thanks to the metal plate.)
Today, 6 days before I run the New York City Marathon and a little over a week before we all vote in yet another dystopian U.S. election—both much scarier ordeals than sending an email—my dear partner Ryan said to me: The people crave slop. Give them your slop.
So here’s your slop.
I don’t know if you know this, but memory loss is hilarious. Whether you’re the one losing your marbles or simply spectating as your loved one’s brain goes out to lunch, there’s much fun to be had.
There’s getting a call where your stomach drops into your ass and threatens to never ascend because your mother is asking where she is because she doesn’t know. You get in an Uber and Pitbull is playing. You don’t know what you’ll find when you make it to her place, but you hope she’s just dehydrated and it’s not what you fear: a stroke. Dale.
There’s circular questioning. What’s going on? Why don’t I remember that? Oh, so do you think I had a stroke? Wait, so what’s going on? Why don’t I remember that? Oh, so do you think I had a stroke? A baby deer, born anew, every few minutes. You are Adam Sandler taking your mother on 50 First Dates to the closest ER.
There’s white coats wheeling her off to CT and telling you to hang tight, with nothing to do but to spiral and eavesdrop on the nurses’ station. You hear the words: everyone, COVID, stroke patient, coding. Your years mainlining Grey’s Anatomy have prepared you for this moment. You know it’ll be white coat-clad Sandra Oh on top of your mother, screaming through the chest compressions.
There’s your lopsided catastrophizing. Instead of suggesting she might be dying and you might lose your mom, the dread bounce housing your guts posits we’ll be financially screwed if it’s a survivable stroke but she can’t work. In between jolts, it reminds you she might also be fine, but the chin-strap-mask nurses will send you home with COVID. A cute spiky souvenir.
There’s the staff admitting her but not giving her a bed upstairs, away from the cough-saturated ER. The inpatient beds are all taken, says the doctor with a sympathetic smile. She knows you’re worried, she validates. But upstairs? More COVID. Still, at least those wretches get to sleep.
There’s the inconsistency in her remembering she got off a plane this week in August 2024 yet the year is 2016. Don’t worry, you’re choosing to ignore any spooky election foreshadowing these claims may suggest.
There’s the mysterious brother you invented. The one your partner never had. Who just poofed into existence and decided to get married next week three time zones away. You never told her about him—why would that be? The sparkly heels still packed in her carry-on bag? Unclear what those are for.
There’s the patient on the cot next door (read: on the other side of a curtain) who you realize has rolled onto the floor without anyone noticing except for you, because you’ve been failing to tune out the TikToks he’s been blasting for several hours until it got eerily quiet. He’s perfectly okay once a nurse finally notices, so when you get home, you can laugh.
There’s the diagnosis that sounds like another Grey’s scene: transient global amnesia. Yes, it’s benign, but no, they don’t know how it works or why it happens. Does she lift heavy weights? No? Maybe stress! Always stress. Everything stress. It’s like blacking out, they say. Like she went to a frat party and lost a few hours, never to be found again. The hours that you hold and replay. Groundhog Day within Groundhog Day.
There’s the banana you sneak in for her after visitor hours are over and the ER is too full to allow you back in. She’ll thank you for it later, since the hospital food she gets looks like chicken breast but turns out to be fish despite tasting like neither. Mysterious protein and potassium, reminiscent of your so-called marathon fuel.
There’s bringing her home the next day. She takes her shot. She exits the shower and meets your eyes with a heinous question. Who are you? Your arrhythmic heart almost throws in the towel before you remember: She won’t let this not be funny. You curse and she roars with laughter and so do you, a few years sheared from your lifespan.
There’s how you’re both completely fine, served well by your N95 masks, good humor, and quick thinking. But each time the phone rings, you’re jumpier than before. Your body gathers its strength to fight or flee from an apex predator at a text from your mom asking if you want anything from the farmer’s market because they have the good apple cider again.
Happy fall, happy halloween, happy marathon, happy election (I hope). May we all find our way out of our respective corn mazes. See you again soon.
my boy!
Slop so good, you’ll want seconds! (Read - I want seconds!! So good.)