Mild Cognitive Decline

For the first time last summer, ‘that word’ unexpectedly crept into my vocabulary. It wasn’t my idea or choice. It was just there, interspersed between your average milk-toast conversations and a few more deeply personal exchanges. At the time, my companion-in-conversation just let it slip that he was facing some memory issues. It wasn’t presented in a dramatic or emotional gesture but rather a more matter-of-fact state of being. This wasn’t the first friend to mention their new cognitive challenge last summer. In fact, it was a total of three friends/acquaintances who shared their diagnosis with me.

We never got into specifics. I guess they didn’t want to go further in their explanation and I was still taken back by their comments. So we settled for ‘mild cognitive decline’ as a safe moniker  and let it go at that. Of course, my mind was still abuzz with the need for further explanations that were never forth-coming.

I guess I shouldn’t have been shocked at my friend’s confession. When I consider the age of many of my friends, family, associates, acquaintances and occasional comrades-in-coffee, it is, unfortunately, a sign of the times. This terrible disease that has been around since the first caveman didn’t return to his cave and got lost in the wilderness.

It’s a word that strikes terror into the hearts of baby boomers worldwide. The disease comes wrapped in different handles like dementia, Alzheimer’s disease and other memory loss conditions; all incurable. An AARP web page explained it this way:

‘The terms “dementia” and “Alzheimer’s” have been around for more than a century, which means people have likely been mixing them up for that long, too. But knowing the difference is important.  In the simplest terms, one is broader than the other. If the two were nesting dolls, Alzheimer’s would fit inside dementia, but not the other way around. While Alzheimer’s disease is the most common form of dementia (accounting for an estimated 60 to 80 percent of cases), there are several other types. The second most common form, vascular dementia, has a very different cause — namely, high blood pressure. Other types of dementia include alcohol-related dementia, Parkinson’s dementia and frontotemporal dementia; each has different causes as well. In addition, certain medical conditions can cause serious memory problems that resemble dementia.’

Mild cognitive impairment (MCI) is a deficit in memory, but generally other cognitive features such as language, judgment, and reasoning are intact. I made this condition a key element in my latest suspense mystery novel ‘Playground for the Devil.’ My heroine’s father is afflicted by it and his memory is key to unraveling the mystery of Henry Miller’s ‘lost’ writings in the book.

In the storyline, his condition was called ‘Lewy Body disease.’ Lewy body dementia (LBD) is a degenerative condition with many similarities to Alzheimer's disease, but it takes hold much more quickly. Dementia develops as nerve cells die or deteriorate, and doctors do not yet know what causes it. There is no cure for LBD, but medication can help moderate some of the symptoms. Lewy body dementia is difficult to identify, but a combination of symptoms can assist doctors in their diagnosis.

The trick is to recognize the clues that can be all around us if we’re cognizant of their signs. But even that can be a challenge. Sharon has an uncle who is going on one hundred and two. For the most part, he is still as sharp as a tack. His memories of going to the one-room school house on his parent’s hay wagon are as clear today as when he was a child.

Other people I’ve encountered seem to have either ‘senior moments’ more often or are more easily distracted. I can’t really tell if there’s an issue with their recall or not. At times, they seem totally in control of their memory, have a good grasp of present-day events and their own current affairs. Other times, I feel as if I’m talking to someone totally different.

I certainly understand that, as we age, holding on to our memory is an increasingly difficult. This is one of the obstacles facing older actors who have to memorize their lines for a play. I personally have watched older actors struggled to memorize the lines I’ve written for my plays.

Like many others my age, I don’t have an answer to this perplexing question. Am I just being forgetful, perhaps not paying attention (my wife would vote for that option any day) or is the gray matter in my head starting to calcify and grow unresponsive?

I’ve long been a note-taker and a list-maker. While I pride myself on a sometimes good memory, I won’t hesitate to take whatever steps necessary to help me remember… anything. It’s all part of the aging process but as long as I can I want to move forward and keep doing and being and living.

Phases and Stages

Two songwriters I really admire were asked about their creative process. Bob Dylan was interviewed about his early years in Minnesota and Greenwich Village where he wrote such classics as ‘Girl from the North Country’ and ‘Boots of Spanish Leather.’ He was asked how he came up with those creative images. His answer was simple and to the point. “I don’t know” He answered. I was a different person back then. I’m a different person now.”

Canadian poet and songwriter, Leonard Cohen was asked how he was able to create such timeless melodies as ‘Suzanne’ and ‘Hallelujah’ and his answer was also very simple. “I wish I knew where to go for those great songs,” He admitted. “But I don’t know where they are.”

Phases and stages; we all go through them and most of the time we don’t even know it. Collectively, our lives come down to a whole host of temporary stages in life. From birth on, we segway from one relationship to another, one kind of lifestyle to another form of existence, one temporary situation to another temporary situation. Then we go on to something else and that past situation is forgotten.

Our lives are an ever-evolving constant series of phases and stages until they finally end one way or another.

From seventh grade through high school, I had a paper route in St. Paul. Twice a day, early morning and late afternoon, through all seasons, seven days a week, I would trudge through a cluster of apartment buildings and residential neighborhoods delivering the news. It became a part of my young life and I never took a day off in six years. It was what it was.

The U.S. Army was another stage of life, a phase in which I cut off almost all communication with the outside world and concentrated on making a comfortable routine within the confines of military service. Weekends were spent traveling off base or holed up in the library reading. There was no time for card games, drinking, carousing off base or pining for the comforts of home. Olive drab and khaki was my life for two years.

Living in Europe was pretty much the same thing once the initial shock of ‘this ain’t America’ wore off.’ I never saw it as a stage or phase but rather a situation, abet temporary, in which I had a job, public transportation and curiosity of about how the Scandinavians lived. The only thing missing were close relationships. In retrospect, that’s probably a good thing or I might never have left there.

As far as my working career goes, there were two really great jobs and two bad situations.

First volunteering at KTCA Television then working there as a producer-director from 1967 through 1971 was enlightening, exciting and educational. It provided the content for one of my latest plays ‘PTV.’

Working at the Maryland Center for Public Broadcasting from 1972 through 1977 was a wonderful experience. Both could have gone on forever but I cut them both short for (supposedly) better opportunities.

Two really bad jobs, one at the Catholic Archdiocese and another at a company called ‘Applied Management Science’ were terrible experiences. It was only after I escaped the confinement of those two prisons that I realized just how bad they really were.

In each instance, good job or bad, I had adjusted to the reality of my daily situation at the time and made the best of it. Unfortunately I didn’t have the insight to see any of them as phases or stages in my life. It was just my ‘present situation.’

The same can be said of a long period of multiple jobs from roughly 1980 through 2005 when I created and ran my own business in addition to working my regular fulltime job. Then adding on the responsibility of owning and managing two apartment buildings. We had two young children and I also felt a deep responsibility to be the father I never had. The responsibilities became almost overwhelming at times but somehow it was simply my life back then and more importantly, ‘something I needed to do.’

The same can be said of my addiction to running, abet ‘positive addiction’ that went from roughly 1964 through 2005. That was more than a phase or a stage. It was truly a lifestyle that I couldn’t shake even if I wanted to.

The same can be said for my present situation as a novelist, playwright, and screenwriter. It is my latest, perhaps my last, stage in my life. A phase that has brought me many sleepless nights, tremendous satisfaction, and comfort in knowing that I have accomplished what I set out to do many many lifetimes ago.

Legacy

Everyone agreed that he was one tough investigative journalist. He didn’t mince words. He told it like it was. He wasn’t afraid to confront any politician or government official that he didn’t think was doing their job. He was fearless, they all agreed. His public persona was one that he liked to sharpen and hone every chance he got. Yep, he certainly was who he was.

When he died, those in the know, those who dealt with him, those who had to work with him day in and day out, they all agreed…that he was a total asshole (their words, not mine). At his wake, few words were minced. Yeah, he was brazen all right, his colleagues agreed. Many said they wished they had his guts, gall, and bravado. Nevertheless, he was still a jerk. Hell of a legacy to leave behind if you ask me.

Then there was a contractor in our community. Many folks claimed he was one of the wealthiest businessmen that no one had ever heard of. At his wake, the consistent message was that he was one tough operator and…that was about it. No mention of any charity work he’d done, no improvements or contributions to his community (it seemed he owned half the place in the beginning), no mention of helping others in need. He just ran his business with an iron fist and made lots of money. Hell of a way to be remembered in the end.

That got me to thinking about my / our respective legacies when the time comes to take a bow and move on to the so-called afterlife.

Me

I grew up without a father or male role model in my life. There was a void of our lives that my Mother chose not to fill with any references or mementos of the man who brought me into this world. So all I have are scratches of tidbits scribbled on a fading memory bank. No good memories, no bad memories, no legacy at all. Nothing of the man who gave me life.

I’ve spoken in the past of my three aunts. From my earliest memories, they seemed like cold indifferent individuals who didn’t particularly care if I existed or not. They really were at the apex of that old time cliché about children ‘better to be seen and not heard.’

My mother with her parents

Horses on my grandparents' farm

What they were really like in ‘real life’ I have no idea. Their backgrounds were similar to that of my Mothers and it was a tough one. There was little to no appreciation for the value of an education. Collectively, they all seemed to have an attraction to men who didn’t value women and had a problem with the drink. By the time they passed, I was either in the service or far removed from my past life. They all passed on and it mattered little to me. Unfortunately, my memories of them are not good ones. That then is their legacy.

Erwin holding our son Brian

My stepfather, Erwin, was a charmer up until the end at age 104. After my mother got ill, we had to place Erwin in a nursing home. He didn’t last long there but his residency was one of mass every morning and sneaking candy into his pew. He loved to sit outdoors and watch the birds and he could still wrangle a card game with the best of them.

My mother only started to slow down near the end of her life and to be honest it was my sister and Sharon who took up the yeoman’s share of caring for her. Marlene and Sharon were saints even when my mother wasn’t. Fortunately, for me my memories began to thin out and dissipate before she got old and ill. I only remember her in fleeting fading glimpses at my past life growing up on Randolph Avenue in Saint Paul. I wish her legacy was clearer than it is. What I remember was good and honest and sincere. She led by example and I became her follower. One could not ask for more.

Sharon and her parents

Other folks have told me about the challenges they went through caring for their aging parents until the end. Everyone faces their eminent demise in their own way. Some are grateful for a life well lived. Some are content with their contributions to society. Others are happy with their children and grandchildren. Others wonder if they’ve prayed enough of late to get them reserved seats beyond the pearly gates.

I’m still pondering my legacy. I hope it’s seen in a life well lived. The solid companionship of a wonderful woman and offspring that warm my heart by their very presence.

It certainly won’t be an accumulation of material goods, second homes, or trips traveled. I hope it’s seen in the accomplishments of my children, the growing success of my grandchildren and a couple of books and plays thrown in for good measure.

If leading by example has any value I’d like to believe I paved a way that my kids and grandkids might want to emulate. As for me, the words I don’t ever want to utter are: woulda, coulda, shoulda.

Turning Seventy-Five

Even back then I couldn’t understand the hype surrounding ‘turning twenty-one.’ It was simply a number that had little meaning to me. I was already doing what I was doing, legal or not. In fact, the only thing I did to recognize that momentous occasion was to let a friend take me to a bar (his favorite) and drink legally for the first time.

Two weeks later I was inducted into the United States Army and from then on age mattered even less.

Thirty came and we were living in Maryland and loving it. Sharon had a great job with Baltimore County Schools and I was managing the Program Distribution Department at the Maryland Center for Public Broadcasting. I was well into writing my first novel and there were no kids yet.

The mythical forty year mid-life crisis slipped by unnoticed because I was simply too busy with other things. The kids were growing up by the minute. Sharden Productions, Inc. was expanding along with several investment projects plus a full time job in public television. I had little time for anything else.

Fifty years of age came and went and wasn’t even noticed.

Sixty meant I was nearing the end of my working career with no clear substitute on the horizon.

My seventy birthday marked a wonderful celebration when both adult children and their respective families made a surprise visit to us in the desert. It reminded me how lucky I truly was.

Now at the ripe young age of seventy-five I am eleven novels, five plays, four screenplays and too many treatments to count, into my new writing career. I’ve made it this far with no regrets and a deep appreciation for a life well-lived. I’ve been incredibly lucky in my relationship with Sharon and our immediate family, my health and friends; past and present. This new writing phase is just icing on the cake; seventy-five years in the making.

Reflecting back on the details of one’s life often reveals a much larger mirror picture. Old black and white photographs, cryptic notes, official documents, and period relics hold captive a bank vault of stored memories.

I have finally come to appreciate all that my mother did for me, intentionally or otherwise. I am now able to recognize the tremendous sacrifices she made for my sister and me. Sadly, I was never able to see that clearly when I was growing up or in her later years. My biggest regret is that I was never close to her. But then again it’s hard to be close to someone who was never able to show even a hint of love and affection toward her children.

Military service, like living in Europe, afforded me life lessons no textbook could ever replicate. I’ve encountered many people who have taught me about life in so many different ways. Some straight to the heart, other lingering beneath the surface, still others in looks and glances and gestures made. Some I understood, others were confusing but all were learning experiences.

Women in particular made the strongest impact on my life. I’ve often wondered if the dysfunction I experienced at home caused me confusion and distraction on the dating scene. It probably did. The names I remember, many of the details not so much. I’m sure it was a combination of my immaturity, insecurity and over-active hormones that fractured many a friendship. But wonderful teachers they all were.

So, here’s an appreciative tip of my hat to Diane, Joyce, Sheila, Marti, Susan and all the others whose faces and memories remain cloaked in that uncertainty and fog of pending senility. Life lessons each and every one of them and most not realized until I was much further down the road. And, of course, a heart-felt salute to the greatest teacher of them all with whom I’ve lived a full life for more than forty-six years.

It’s been one heck of a ride thus far. Yet there are still so many plays, novels, screenplays, songs, comic strips and who knows what else left to create.

I just hope there’s enough time.

Fixin' to Die

I’ve reached that point in my life where people I know are starting to die.

Of course, there were others who died back when I was young. But youth and little personal connection meant a somber night at the funeral home because I had to not because I cared. As I grew older there was the occasional unexpected demise of a casual friend or associate but never some-one close enough to move my heart.

Me as a Teenager

I guess I became more aware of my own mortality and that of others when my early morning sidekicks began to pass away. It was those scholars of teenage bliss and angst. My early morning rock and roll companions who trudged with me through twenty-below-zero snow banks to deliver the morning newspaper. They sang to me though my transistor radio and told me all about love and loss and my best years ahead.

One of my favorite song-writing poets died recently. Leonard Cohen spoke to me in a dozen different voices and languages; all of which tugged at my heart and soul.

Now even some folks closer to me, in-laws, parents and relatives have passed on. No one is fixin to die but it’s coming around for all of us. My next door neighbor died a couple of weeks ago. We weren’t close and he wasn’t very friendly but we talked occasionally and joked and philosophized about the world. Now he’s gone too.

Like most past generations, death was one of those topics that seldom if ever was addressed among my relatives. It was never broached in my immediate family when I was growing up. Through either a reticence to admit the inevitable, fear, or abject denial the topic was seldom broached. People grew old, got sick and died. Then someone had to write their obituary.

Strange though it might sound, I’ve always admired those folks with the foresight and fortitude to write their own obituaries.

I think it would be a challenge yet immensely rewarding to write an open honest obituary. I believe a funeral should be the time of celebrating a life well led. A finely crafted obituary can share with friends and strangers happy memories over sadness. It forces the writer to address one key question: what is my legacy? What did I do here on earth to warrant the pride and hopefully the gratitude of my peers, friends, family, and others?

All those thoughts and more have been compiled in yet another file folder for a future musical play I’ve love to write. It’s about a funeral and the celebration that takes place there.

Since none of us have the advantage of knowing how long we’re going to live, I think it’s important to reflect on what we can do now that we’re still alive. Beyond the standard of having a will, staying healthy and exercise, I do have a few more thoughts.

We should each day as if it is our last. Not in a morbid kind of way but rather a daily celebration of the wonder of life and friends and family all around us. Helping others even in the most simplest of ways can mean everything to someone else. And lastly, follow your dreams whatever they are. As the cliché goes, life is too short to live it any other way.

Sleeping with Sage

To tell her story as honestly as I could it was imperative that I know Sage intimately. If that meant sleeping with her I was willing to make the sacrifice…to go the distance.

The genesis for writing a play or a novel or a screenplay is to understand your characters better than anyone else. Why not? You created them so you should shoulder the responsibility for understanding their actions, motivations, thoughts, fears, aspirations and even their darkest of secrets.

My goal was to get to know Sage better than anyone else ever had. I needed to get inside her mind, thoughts, personality, fears, phobias, cares and concerns. I had to understand what lay behind that rainbow façade she so prominently displayed as a fixture of her past. She was a fascinating woman unlike any I had encountered before and yet an enigma in my mind.

If I had to (figuratively) sleep with her to get to where I was going, then I was willing to do that. My wife knows I’m a writer and as such I sometimes have to take desperate measures to reach my goal. All in the name of art…or in my case, simple story-telling.  Still even for a wannabe hippie sleeping with a fictional one proved to be a real challenge.

Constructing a story, or in this case writing a play and then producing it, turned out to be a lesson in perseverance, patience and fortitude. It became a journey into the minds, motives, emotions and back-stories of a lot of folks. It was taking all the personal information and then sharing it with the world or in this case, an audience full of expectant participants.

The first step was to write the play which is simply story-telling in its most stripped down, naked form. I wrote ‘Riot at Sage Corner’ as a spec play for the Second Act Players, a part of RAAC, the Rosemount Area Arts Council. I did so without any idea if it would work or be accepted by RAAC once it was completed.

First titled ‘Riot at Sunny Acres’ the play slowly evolved into its present-day form. There were dueling protagonists with Sage on one side and Margaret Maple, her arch-enemy and the other. There was a mysterious man nick-named ‘The General’ and enough underlying tension to blow the place apart at any moment.

After its acceptance by RAAC the really hard work began. That meant finding a common vision with the director and the producers. It meant traveling inside our collective heads and coming to an agreement on what we found there.

The second step was to find the right actors to portray my characters. Auditions were critical to find the right personalities for your fictional characters. Then rehearsals are meant to stir up the storyline, flesh out the characters, and give humanity to the pretenders on stage.

After weeks of intensive practice on and off stage, the dress rehearsal put all of our collective effort to the test. It was where all the kinks were (hopefully) worked out.

Finally, it was time for the performance where the audience hopefully will enjoy all our collective efforts at storytelling.

August 25^th and 26^th are the performance dates. The cast is ready. The crew is ready. Margaret is posed to stamp out problems with that aging hippie once and for all. Sage is ready to blow her mind; literally and figuratively.

Thursday and Friday at the Steeple Center in Rosemount. Tickets on line or at the door. Seating is limited. The ‘Riot’ starts at 7:00 pm.

Let the storytelling begin.

Peter Pan Syndrome

Recently a friend of mine had a reunion with a group of neighborhood women she hadn’t seen in over thirty years. Not surprisingly and following statistics, two of the women had been divorced and remarried while the first two remained married.

Each woman had been through the typical trials and tribulations so common with couples today. They had gotten married in a bright rainbow flush of love. They had children and assumed their lives would play out as so many others had. Then something changed along the way for two of the couples. Perhaps it was infidelity or a loss of faith in their partner. Two of the women ended up on the other side of the marriage equation. The other two held steady to their marriage, kids, a career and now retirement with the same spouse.

What struck me about my friend’s lengthy discourse with the two divorced women was an overwhelming consensus that if they had to do it again they would never have gotten remarried at that stage in their lives.

Their reasoning was very clear. When men get old, the women argued, they are not fun to be around anymore. Old men get set in their ways. They look old. They sound old. They talk like old men.

Herein lays the dilemma for many of us. When is casualness in retirement mistaken for slovenliness? When is enjoying a cup of coffee and the newspaper in the morning someone else’s waste of time? When is finally being able to relax doing what you want to do mistaken for a lack of ambition or direction?

There is a freedom of thought and expression on the west coast that extends far beyond the hedonistic pleasures of Palm Canyon Drive. It can be found in the artist communities of Idyllwild. It is prevalent among the hermits, musicians and malcontents of Joshua tree and on the coast with the seaside poets and painters of Laguna Beach.

This creative expression can be found in the visual renderings of imaginative minds, the music of dreamers, the mauling of vernacular vestiges in the name of art and the casual clothing found most everywhere. It’s casualness I’ve embraced in my old age.

When we vacation in Palm Springs I like to emulate the natives. Each morning I put on my swimming suit, flip-flops, and a t-shirt. On chilly mornings a fleece will suffice until it warms up.

I don’t always shave every day. It takes about two or three days for some semblance of a shadow to appear on my face. Most of it is gray so it’s practically invisible anyway. Until the back of my head resembles the great waves on the North Shore it’s not time for a haircut.

On more than one occasion it’s been suggested that perhaps early senility has set in or as someone close to me likes to say “I’m losing it.”

Am I the only male of our species that thinks shaving every day and wearing underwear are two grooming rituals that can be ignored every once in a while assuming the environment is as I’ve described it?  Or must I acquiesce to the proper rituals of male grooming that the other half thinks is so important no matter what the environment? In a nutshell, if I’m working at home in my office and not in public, do I have to shave and wear underwear just because we’ve been conditioned to believe it’s the proper thing to do?

Photo courtesy of Brett Kolles

Photo courtesy of Brett Kolles

I have a middle-age friend who loves to bring his male friends up to his mountain cabin a couple of times a year for a ‘guy’s weekend.’ They have water balloon fights, play soccer, fly kites off the mountainside, ride Mountain bikes recklessly through the woods, and in short, act like kids for the weekend. Is this stupid or just men being men?

Women would say one thing. Men would defensively say another.

Perhaps we’re talking about the idiosyncrasies of older men or just men in general. What is a man cave other than modern days refuse for men to hide from women and just be themselves (or as women would say, just being stupid)

Women seem to have a plethora of concerns for their husbands, partners or significant others as the aging process becomes more apparent. They worry about their men getting old and acting it. They fret about them not shaving every day. Not getting a haircut when it’s needed (their determination, not his) Not dressing appropriately in public or semi-public for that matter. They worry about their man’s personal hygiene.

For those more insightful women they worry about their man not having a lot of male friends. Not to mention a myriad of other complaints from a lack of interest in anything remotely akin to her interests to just plain old boredom.

A few of my blogs have dealt with or at least edged alongside the concept of growing old. Occasionally I like to ponder what it means to get old. At times I wonder if I’m deluding myself with my interest in popular music, new adventure travels, living abroad, athletic endeavors, getting more involved with my grandchildren and a myriad of other activities usually left for the younger set.

Is it the Peter Pan syndrome raising its young head again or something more ominous such as denial of the inevitable aging process? Are sore muscles and stiffness the inevitable results of a life well lived or simply a lack of exercise? Am I kidding myself when I say you’re never too old to grow young again? And don’t fade slowly into the dark; instead leap boldly into the brightness until it burns you up.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that this whole writing thing of mine is a culmination of many goals and desires first initiated during my lost years. It’s spawned a desire to reconnect with old friends, revisit and examine my past and to do so while focusing on my future and adjusting for the reality of my life as it is.

From Snow White and the Seven Seekers to Looking for Susan’s House, this vision quest has become an important part of my life and I’m not about to let it go.

This attitude or delusional meanderings of mine seem to have struck a cord with a lot of folks who read my blogs. So either my readers find something of interest here or they’re just curious what my problems are? Or maybe they simply like to look at the old pictures I post?

The fact is I don’t want to grow up if it means looking and ending up like a lot of the old men around me. So what if I don’t shave everyday? So what if I wear my swimming suit in the morning or continue to listen to classical music (meaning music of the 50s and 60s) while still opening myself up to newer forms of musical entertainment?

I would argue that as long as I’m staying involved and and using my mind every day for something other than mindless chatter at the coffee shop or listening to talk radio, it’s time well spent. For a lot of folks my age long range planning means “What’s for dinner?” I’d like to believe that I can see a little further out than that. I’m not falling apart but simply focusing on things of greater importance in this world in which I’ve chosen to live.

Despite the challenges of old age and calcified ambitions that sometimes have to be pried loose from the rigid assumptions of past generations, I intend to continue my quest to discover, examine and write about whatever it is that interests me.

They say the secret to a long and successful marriage is to let the man handle the big things and the woman handle the little things. Then make sure your marriage is all about the little things. This works for me.

As long as I can wear my Southern California attitude whether I go…with or without underwear.