Aging affects more than our physical abilities. I watch as friends struggle to find words, to follow instructions, to grasp concepts. Some call it dementia; some call it cognitive impairment; some call it “chemo-brain.” And some simply wear a bewildered look. In this poem I tried to imagine myself into their confusion. 

            The opening line, of course, comes from Carl Sandburg.

            I realize this is dangerous ground – I haven’t been there myself, yet. But by the time I get there, I won’t be able to put the experience into words. I also realize that the people who could tell me if I got it right – or badly wrong – probably can’t respond. My hope, however, is that this poem may help some of you, who have friends or relatives with some form of ongoing dementia, appreciate what they may be feeling. 

Brain fog

The fog creeps in

on little dendrites and axons, 

It short-circuits the fungal filaments 

that feed the chemistry of communication

from gray cell to… oh, what were the numbers

for the combination lock

on my memory locker?

Clarity scampers like a squirrel,

always just out of reach. 

I grasp at dust motes dancing in a sunbeam.

 “Recalculating,” says a disembodied  guide, 

but I don’t remember where I wanted to go -- 

not even in this sentence. 

When in doubt, reboot!

Everything works better, they say, 

after being unplugged a while. 

Even me, 

I think. 

Or do I? 

Maybe a re-start will re-store where I was,

once upon a time. 

In children’s stories…

But when I back up I have no backup.

Bits have no byte; digits only dig deeper holes

in dust and ashes. 

Facts fly freely as autumn leaves.

I grope for certainty.

My ferris wheel wheezes to a stop, 

marooning me in mid-air.

I close my eyes; I concentrate.

Deliberately,  I drive the mists away; 

I rip apart the thick curtains

that announce Act II

and find beyond the footlights

only

more

fog. 

by Jim Taylor, August 2019