When I turned twenty-eight, that’s when I became a hypochondriac. That’s also when I discovered that my formerly timeless body was beginning to sag and ache and look less ruddily robust.
There’s no grace to aging. It’s all lumps and bumps and stiffness.
And so, of course, I worry that I have early onset Alzheimer’s.
Sometimes I feel like whole parts of my memory are inaccessible. Like they’re buried in a pile of sand. I stand there alone and panicking, unable to draw up any piece of myself before that moment.
My sister has fibromyalgia and has told me about her experiences with fibro-fog. She takes a GPS with her on her runs, knowing she might forget how to get home, landmarks suddenly unrecognizable. And she told me about the time she was staring at something in the kitchen, momentarily unaware of what it was, why she stood before it and how on earth to use it. It was a microwave. Or a toaster. But you get the point. Scary.
This is how I feel sometimes.