Epic Dementia

On an almost daily basis I will experience an event that makes me think to myself, Oh, this would be a good blog post. Inevitably, I fail to write it down immediately so, within an hour I forget. Because my dementia these days knows no bounds. Like when I go into Labor & Delivery in the morning, spend an hour visiting with patients, examining patients and documenting in the chart all about these patients. I usually reward myself with a weak cup of poor coffee + horrible "french vanilla" creamer (not real cream, creamER. Ick.) afterward and head to the nurse's station to watch fetal monitors and await the arrival of my attending. Remember, I've spent an hour with these people already today. Cross referencing their lab results. Noting their questions and complaints. Making small talk. Cooing at their new baby burrito. Again, almost without fail my attending will show up, beeline for The Board and proceed to ask me questions about the patients I just saw. "What's going on in 321?" she'll ask. My dementia chooses that one moment to kick in. It's as if I've never seen these people in my whole life. I watch myself from the outside, saying, "Um...she...had a baby?"

Way back during surgery rotation, one afternoon while sitting in the Chair of Shame in Dr. Dave's office, having just endured a brutal didactic session on some topic or another, he finally leaned back in his chair and casually asked if I had any questions in general about stuff we had done recently. I looked down at my feet and frowned, trying to think of something, anything. And nothing came. I could feel his laser gaze boring into me. So I said, "Oh, yes. Usually I think of really good questions in the middle of the night. But then I forget them by morning." I was half joking. He nodded at me expressionlessly as he rocked back in his desk chair. "So you've got a little dementia going on there." Oh, god. He knows!

So long story short, I had some good fodder for bloggery but it has gone by the wayside in the abyss of my increasingly retarded neurons. Soon, I will no longer remember where I live or what my name is. I'll forget how to eat, hopelessly smashing food toward my face and missing my mouth. I'll show up to work with undies on my head. Or something. That's if I remember how to get to work.

I've started "jogging" again--note the quotes as to how loosely I use this term. It's pretty pathetic. And since even my personal jogging best falls short of a 5k, "pretty pathetic" is an understatement. A nice brisk walk down to the corner to warm up. Then I crank the Pod and hit the creekside trail, which is lovely. I can generally maintain a legit jog until I make it to the park (~ 1/2 mile). Then I have to stop so as to not die. So I walk. And walking feels pretty danged good. So I keep walking well past the time when I should've started jogging again. Then when I get to the corner of my street--the home stretch for this route--I know I have to jog, or risk looking like a pussy. And I hate every step of it. Cumulatively, I can jog a mile.

God, that is sad.

I would much prefer to ride my bike for 40 miles than jog 2.