"What was I saying?"

copyright May 2008 by Ruth Lampert

As a child my notorious absent-mindedness was something of a curse. Today, having passed the three-quarter century mark, (I forgot exactly when) I think it was the proverbial blessing in disguise. Other folks, even those a decade or two younger, fuss and moan about how they enter a room and wonder “what did I come here for?,” or can’t remember their appointments and must rely on writing everything down and then remembering to read what they wrote, or want to introduce their boss and can’t think of her name.

Heck, I’ve been doing that stuff for a lifetime, so it doesn’t really bother me.

My prime example of the phenomenon goes back to when I was about ten years old, a student at Darwin Elementary School in Chicago.( As we know, long-term memory remains muscular) One of my chores was to drop the garbage into the backyard incinerator on my way to school. (No garbage disposals back then, and no restrictions on home incinerators)

The routine was to dump the brown bag, exit the yard into the alley, proceed to Kedzie Boulevard where the crossing guard “Injun Joe” (no political correctness back then either) made sure cars stopped for us and where I usually met two or three buddies to walk with the rest of the way.

Maybe I left early that morning, or more likely, late, because I didn’t meet anyone on the way. If I had, they would doubtless have inquired as to what exactly it was I was lugging to school that day. As with “highway hypnosis,” which years later would become a recognized phenomenon (what can I say? I was ahead of my time) I correctly executed all the required turns and stops, arrived at school, went to my classroom, and sat down at my desk while still deep in day dreams. …

. The next thing I was aware of was the teacher asking:

“Ruth, why did you bring a bag of garbage to school with you?”

What? Who, me? Garbage? School? Huh?

I looked at the desk top. Sure enough, there it was, the bag of garbage which was supposed to have been dropped into the incinerator. It must have been a sturdy bag because the contents had not leaked through. The same cannot be said of the odor.

Probably there were some titters, probably the teacher instructed me to take the garbage down to the basement and dump it in a trash can, probably I did; the last clear recall I have is of how strange it was to see a garbage bag on top of my desk, right next to the ink well.

Another school-related incident of what would nowadays probably be labeled Attention Deficit Disorder:

` The playground at recess was always a noisy swirl of activity, with frenzied competition to get in line for the long, winding slide, a favorite, if frightening activity. Somehow I never got into the line quickly enough (probably I was looking for a misplaced jacket or picking up the pencils and paper I had accidentally flung to the floor in my clumsy haste to , just once, get to the playground in time) and there I would be as usual, waiting, squirming in line ,when the bell went off signalling the end of recess and the return to the classroom.

So it was with a sense of being hit with a miracle on that bright day when I got to the playground to find it – empty! Thrilled at being the first one out I ran immediately to the coveted slide, clambered up the steps, slid on down, and got back in line again – except there still was no line. I figured this was a reward for my having endured so many disappointing recesses – Someone up there had decided to make up to me for all the slide turns I had never gotten.

After about the fourth “turn” however something about all the calm and quiet began to seem..if not ominous, curious…where, in fact, was everybody? Why was I the only one on the yard? And was that my mother hurrying toward me, wearing the familiar parental expression of mixed relief and anger?

“What are you doing here, Mom?” I asked as she grabbed my arm.

“What am I doing here?” she shrieked, What are you doing here? You should have been home 20 minutes ago! I’ve been worried sick!”

Why, I started to wonder, would I be expected at home during rec…oh oh. It finally dawned on me……this wasn’t recess, it was the end of the school day and everyone had left for home. (This was before there were after-school programs for kids whose mothers “,worked” , the accepted workplace of all mothers was in the kitchen.)

Nowadays I obsessively note everything in my appointment so as to be sure I will be there at the appointed time and place. It works, too; in almost three decades of private practice I have only double-booked twice, and completely forgotten once. In all cases my clients were gracious about it, remembering that my policy re cancellations is that everyone gets one free goof ( forgetting to call, or arriving at the wrong time) and in all fairness, that policy that includes me. .

But it is embarrassing to ocassionaly think I have left a phone message for someone only to discover later that I actually left it on my own voice mail; even worse is e-mailing to the wrong address, writing to one person about another person, and sending it to the person being written about. Fortunately my friends, like my clients, remain forgiving about this sort of thing. So far.

Thus do I manage to live with this troublesome aspect of aging. My mantra of denial is,:
“Hey, I’ve always been absent-minded!”

Whatever works, right?