Forgetting

If I have had a stroke, or if I have developed plaques and tangles, the area of my brain that holds favorite flower names is the site of the problem.  For two weeks I was unable to remember a favorite blue-flowered plant.  I love the color of this flower, an ultramarine blue shading into purple.  I pass this foot-high creeping plant every time I walk to my studio.  I asked a friend who is a master gardener if she could help me find the name of this plant.  She called back later in the week and asked “Vinca?

“No,” I said.

“Plumbago?”

“YES!  Leadwort!” I crowed.  “Thank you!”

It seems odd to forget Plumbago for so long, then remember its common name when prompted.

Next I forgot another small blue flower that I love.  I kept trying to call it a Morning glory; each time I would picture a real Morning glory and know my plant was not that.  I have a bunch of seedlings of this mystery plant; I recently planted them after keeping the seeds for two years.  Half a week after forgetting its name, the name Forget-me-not popped into brain.  How could anyone forget the name of a plant named Forget-me-not?

The third troublesome plant had a yellow flower.  In the plant’s third year I picked its first bloom ever for a bouquet for an old friend.  The minute I cut the flower I forgot its name.  As I walked into my friend’s room two hours later, I said, “Look! Today is the first time the St. John’s wort has bloomed, and this is its first blossom.”  Two hours forgetting is better than two weeks, but it's too long to call the forgetting a word-finding problem.

People my age often have word-finding difficulty.  I have momentary word-finding lapses from time to time.  I find the lost word quickly.  When Ox forgets a word it pops out of my mouth before his mouth has a chance to find a synonym.  I am more tactful with other friends.  These flower names, however, are a different order of forgetting.

When Catherine was a child I said to her with great warmth, “Goodnight, Wag.”  Wag was our dog and Catherine was indignant that I got neither the name, the species, nor the sex right.  Remembering this has given me comfort for years.  If I could have such a gross lapse in my 40s, and was still kicking and sentient, then maybe I was not yet a candidate for the secure ward.  I’m kicking and sentient now, but I’m starting to worry.