Losing It!

Don’t say anything, I know!

“Did you ruin it completely?” She peered into the pot on the stove.  “Yes, you have.”

I had just turned off the flame under the oatmeal. It was done, just the way I like it, but a black ring an inch wide  ran all around the inside of the pot above the surface of the cereal, where the water had boiled away.

“Mom! Where’s the timer? Why didn’t you set the timer?”

Why indeed had I not followed the rule we had established: set that timer before starting to do anything at all on the stove. Such a simple rule – and here, within easy reach on the counter,  next to the electric coffee pot, stands the little white box with its display of numbers to be set manually, the kind I prefer over the one on my cell phone. What is the matter with me?

Panic rises to the back of my throat as I inhale. The kitchen is full of smoke although I have opened the windows. I’m losing it!

This is the moment when, were this a movie about an old woman (who looks much younger than her age), she would be enveigled to try a week in a nearby assisted living facility. She would find the place delightful, meet interesting people, including a vigorous and charming man who invites her to the weekly dance. She would opt to stay, of course.

But I’m not in a feel-good movie, this is my life. I have been in one of these AL compounds not long ago and no thank you. Lots of stuffed furniture and a musty kind of feeling. In the ballroom next to the spacious lobby of the eight-story apartment building, a young man was playing dance tunes on an accordion but nobody danced. A few elderly people sat on straight=backed chairs against the walls, canes and walkers parked beside them. The acquaintance I visited preferred to stay in her room. She had planned to take up ceramics, do a lot of reading, but like many others, she soon lost interest in most things except for her nieces’ visits and meals. We had tea and cookies. This acquaintance passed away soon after. Oh may I be spared from having to linger in death’s waiting room.

I’m relieved to realize that my daughter has not yet fully understood what is happening to me. From one moment to the next, I am constantly forgetting certain small immediate things like the timer or where the keys are (‘Mom, just put them in this wooden bowl—always” “Yes, I do, I can’t explain why they aren’t there now, so they must be in a jacket pocket, I’ll find them.) I don’t mention that it’s been three days since I’ve seen those keys, since then I’ve been using a spare set. I have searched every likely pocket. They will turn up eventually.

Perhaps there is still time. I do still love to smell and roses and watch the new moon rise. I will scrub that burned pot with baking soda, chances are it will still be ok to use. If not, I’ll buy another. After this morning’s scare, I’ll surely remember that timer.

Probably though—most likely—I’ll forget again, alas. So I call a friend who’s also forgetful, who will understand.

“Happens to me all the time,” she says. “It will keep happening. Don’t beat yourself up about it, that won’t help. I use the Ram Dass mantra: Be Here Now. When I say it to myself--out loud, so I hear it--I focus completely on what I’m doing. That may be cooking oatmeal, or driving. I don’t let myself think of anything else. That works for me.”

I’ll try it. OK. It’s a plan.

This pot is not burning.