Starting to Forget, A Wake Up call?



Mexicanwave

 Dorothy Skarles has been one of my critique partners for some time.  She has also been a teacher and a great supporter of my writing.
 
Two years ago, she lost her husband, and as a result, her will to write.

I considered this a shame and a great loss, not only for herself, but for all the people who have come to enjoy her wonderful articles and stories.

As a result, I encouraged her to start a blog.

Too much, too hard, she told me and what would I write about?

I suggested she write about what was closest to her heart right now--bereavement--and then offered her Fridays on my site as a way to give blogging a try.

She agreed, and I'm proud of her progress.

Most of all, I'm happy that she's writing again.

Welcome Dorothy.

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Starting to Forget, A Wake Up Call?

fallsroad

Did I lock the door? 

Did I leave the coffee pot on?

What did I do with my keys?

When one starts to forget, is it a wake up call? 

Does one need to worry?

Not according to my bereavement group. 

Forgetting, misplacing, or having a fuzzy brain is part of the high stress the bereaved go through at the death of a loved one.

Even so, the minute I forget something (which seems to be happening a lot lately), I start to worry.  Am I okay?

Walking a path to wholeness varies from a few months to three or four years.

Yes, years.

alexis mire

A woman in my bereavement group said, “I’ve been a widow for five years, and I still forget where I put things.”

Another added, “ At least you’re forgetting at home. I went to the grocery store, got my cart, and went up and down every isle, never putting one thing into the cart.  When I got home, I still didn’t have any milk.”

Knowing what others go through helps, but I’m having a hard time dealing with some of my own memory lapses that come up.

My not paying attention while getting dressed is still alive with embarrassment.

One day I went to the bank and grocery store, and on returning home, met my son at the front door.

“When did you start wearing your bra on the outside of your clothes,” he asked. 

I felt a jerk on the back of my sweater, and then he began to laugh as he held up my bra.

My face burned at the thought of a bra hanging outside my clothes and over my fanny without knowing anything was wrong. How could I go back to the bank and grocery store where no one, absolutely no one, had said anything to me?

Has my memory come down to this--forgetting and fuzzy thinking?

I hope not.

In the bereavement group they say when the “crisis” is over and you return to some degree of normalcy, clarity will return.

I cling to that thought.  And rather than drown in my shame or embarrassment for not coping, I’ve decided not to overburden my mind with so many thoughts that go nowhere.

Except maybe paying attention when I get dressed.

daskarlesÓ2010