Who are you?

Dr. Motes and I were frowning at this piece of furniture in the Florida room. For a long minute neither of us could remember the word "futon." Well, we decided, it's a  rather foreign word, anyway but it cast a shadow for  a moment or two. (I did think "couch" and "sofa" and even "bench" but that's not the point.)

We all seem more worried about losing our wits nowadays than losing bits of ourselves to cancer. Cancer by all accounts ennobles. You never hear of someone with cancer getting mean and nasty or stupid. They are always courageous, valiant, strong. They fight. Sickness it seems brings out the inner hero but Alzheimers? Apparently it usually brings out not just the inner child but the least attractive inner child - dim, petulant, often angry, willfully getting lost, and doing dangerous things with electrical outlets and gas stoves.

I've always maintained that I wouldn't mind being nuts if I didn't realize it. Sitting on the futon nodding happily  at the world as Queen Mary the First, Second or even the Fifteenth, that would be fine but if I accosted every one with a worried "Am I really Queen?" "You know I can't remember if I'm REALLY Queen..." "Where's my crown? Dammit where's MY CROWN? Why are those people staring at me?" Then that's no fun.

If I could be perky Alzheimers wouldn't be so bad. We like to remember the story of a friend, visiting his mother. "Who are you?" she asked as he came into her room.
"I'm your son."
"Well then, give me a kiss!"
Now that's the way to go.