On the seventy-fifth anniversary of D-Day, I will be 75. Happy Birthday to me.
Some things I remember. Still, I forget the name of the star of my all-time favorite movie, just when I am trying to recall it in a conversation. It is not an easy name to forget: foreign and exotic as a Bedouin Sheikh. I just can not find it in the daze of my mind. He had a very nice wife, that actress whose father was so famous in silent films, but he fell in love anyway with another beautiful actress as well. You remember the movie. I am sure you have seen it. Usually I can repeat its name, just not right this minute.
These must be the first days of dementia. First daze. As long as I can joke about Alzheimer's, Old Timers Disease, I must not have it. If I can remember the apostrophe.
My Cardiologist keeps after me to take a particular Rx that everyone believes will reduce my risk of heart attack, but it may increase my risk of memory loss. Even the pharmacy sheet says so.
How will I know, when the time comes that I can not remember anything? Like I never knew it. It never happened. I never was.
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