Cognition, memory, and throwing chairs
Crap.
My colleagues sent me through some marking I’ll need to do in the next few weeks. This is not a problem, I add it to my diary to reserve some time, squirrel a quick look at the first one to ensure that I have a good sense of the task, and add it to my growing list of things to do. On my list is also cleaning my room, which I plan to get round to shortly after the heat-death of the universe.
It’s the first time I’ve marked this particular assignment so I email the team to ask for some advice, learning from previous experiences of their marking. My manager emails me back.
It is not the first time I’ve marked this assignment.
I also marked five of the same assignments last year. There are times when I forget things and something or someone reminds me and I discover the misplaced memory, and after I dust it off I recognise that it’s there, can review it, and realise slightly uncomfortably that I simply couldn’t find it.
But this memory does not exist.
There are a handful of possibilities. It is possible that the memory exists but the reminder from my manager is an insufficient cue to locate it, the librarian of my brain is a warm bread pudding and sometimes it takes a few different cues to find something. It is also possible that the memory did exist but has become lost to a brain lesion. The mind library in which my bread pudding works has literal holes in it and sometimes books fall right off the shelf into the infinite void. Or it is possible that I was unable to encode the memory, the book never got written, and it does not exist.
Maybe it doesn’t matter which of these is the culprit, my manager’s noticing elicited a neat little defensive response from me, off the cuff, blaming the brain lesions. I’m there laughing at my little joke to myself for a good few moments before my laughter crumbles into something sadder, more vulnerable, and I realise that I’m not ok.
Honestly there are so many different skills upon which I have built my life that everything I know, everything I am, feels so susceptible to the damage that MS wreaks, and all suddenly seems so fucking fragile. I know I don’t swear much here, but sometimes the emotional content of a concept can’t really be conveyed accurately without it. And right now it all suddenly feels So. Fucking. Fragile.
I know that my last MRI highlighted ‘some’ new lesions in the right hemisphere, like someone describing how badly their football team lost by saying that there were ‘some’ goals. I know that cognitive challenges are a pretty big concern when it comes to brain lesions and indeed I’ve experienced some already, with word finding difficulties being a classic nightmare, where I needed audience participation to get through teaching just to fill in the blanks, like an enthusiastic crossword.
And I know that cognitive challenges are something that at some point I’ll need to face. And I’ve been noticing more issues in the past couple of years since the last relapse. I notice my headphones plugged in without remembering plugging them in, or I get a mug for my coffee to discover one sitting ready in the machine, or like right now when I’m enjoying a song and find that I’ve already added it to my favourites. Little things.
I’m pretty defensive about it, reluctant to consider the possibility. My neurologist asked about cognitive challenges at our last meeting and my response was so definite, so abrupt, that my neurologist didn’t pursue the line of questioning further. I assume he was mindful of the possibility that I’d throw a chair at him, which was not impossible, though I couldn’t throw a chair if I tried, maybe I’d throw a balled up tissue at him with surprising vehemence.
It’s a really weird sensation to realise that you are experiencing some cognitive issues from MS, like discovering the foundations of your life are eroding and seeing the opportunity for it all to at some point go sliding into the sea. I treasure my brain. I’ve built a career out of using it, and the idea that I’d begin to find it hard to engage in the cognitively demanding work that forms such a key part of my identity is very nearly too much to bear. My temptation in these moments is always to envision a catastrophic future, one in which eldritch horrors await. That part of myself always vigilant to threats draws her sword, as though we can fight our way out of this with brute force and cunning.
Panic creeps into me, multiplying and spreading through my attention like bacteria. My focus is flooded and dissolves through my grasping hands.
I stop and breathe, play some music, take a moment. I take several. We’re not there yet, I remind myself.
I try to remember the lessons we have learned, the seeds that need tending in the garden of our mental health. We accept what is, and do the things that make us happy regardless.
Usually I’d play a video game, watch a film, do something to distract myself from the entropy of it all. For sure, I’ll boot up Veilguard in a bit. First, though, I’m going to do something new. I’m going to message a friend. I’m struggling… but I don’t have to be alone…