What Did You Say?

I used to have a great memory. Poetry, phone numbers, names with faces, song lyrics, equations, definitions, Bible verses, addresses. Lots and lots of useful and some useless stuff rattled around in my brain, within easy reach for when I needed something. Then I had kids, sleep deprivation, serious illnesses, injury, chronic pain, depression, stress, and then the inevitable entrance into my 40s. The stuff was still there, but the files were dusty, and some of the drawers were hard to open, and some of the file cabinets had been moved. But there. Today? Not so much.

I first noticed the change when I started working as an office manager. I had a lot of new stuff to learn. Procedures, definitions, operating various office machines I had never used before, more phone numbers and FAX numbers, account numbers and part numbers. An entire vocabulary of words related to the industry of measuring flow through pipes for industrial processes. Our products had names that consisted of a string of code descriptors, ten in a name, many choices for each category. I'll spare you a detailed example, but it was understanding that whole string that made the bookwork much easier, and I got it. It made me feel incredibly empowered. After a short while, I no longer had to look up part numbers, or wonder why the customer hadn't chosen a diameter size. He had ordered an insertion meter, rather than one integrated into the line, and I didn't need to know the size. I was good at my job.

My memory now? Shot to hell. When I first was fired, I held onto that info like it was a life-raft and soon someone would recognize the hideous mistake they'd made and would rescue me and say, “You're the only one who has all that memorized. No one can replace you. We're so sorry. We have to have you back.” This wasn't a realistic fantasy, mind you, but since when are fantasies realistic? Kinda ruins the whole “fantasy” part of it, right?

I wasn't just forgetting stuff that I could look up if I couldn't remember. I was forgetting whole conversations. Stuff I'd promised my kids I'd do. “But MOOO-om, you promised us Dairy Queen!” I was, shall we say, frighteningly forgetful. Until the day I came to terms with the fact that even IF they offered me my wonderful job back, I was not going to take it. My kids needed me at home. They are my life priority. I had (painfully) realized that while I was chasing the dream job that would give The Engineer HIS dream job, our boys had been left in the dust. To fend for themselves. Not literally, we were there, they were only alone about an hour a day due to flex time, but in reality. I was too tired to patiently listen to YellowBoy explain how he'd finally beaten the 4^th boss on the really high level and Jake hadn't. I was spent, and didn't have patience to help with homework. I dropped into bed the minute I'd put them to bed.

I don't remember (ha, now that's funny!) exactly how long I'd been home when I decided to purge {name of company}'s entire existence from my iPhone. I think it must have asked me ten times if I really wanted to actually delete 85% of my contacts, two email accounts, half my notes, and the ability to connect with their wi-fi. Yes. I. Do. Pushed the button. My phone moaned and groaned as all that data was ripped out, then lay quietly waiting for me. I lifted my glass of chardonnay in salute, and told my brain to do the same dump. Just forget it all.

It actually worked. Me dumping those files from my brain. The Engineer had (seriously) thought I was having mental problems with all the forgetting, and was worried. Suddenly, I was back to being a walking rolodex, managing the family affairs without gaffes, or, “Did I really say that?” I wasn't losing my mind. My job had just taken up all the bandwidth.

So you're great now, you ask. Well. No. I'm somewhere in the middle. I'm glad my precious iPhone remembers so much for me, and has alarms and alerts and a calendar that syncs with my mac. I do remember conversations, just not always all the content. Saw my doctor, who assured me that I was normal. Well, normal for a person with my level of stress. My age. Raising teenagers. And taking on too much. But that's OK with me. I just dumped data. Not willing to dump my personality.