Tag: memory

A Place Where Awareness Ends

I was making lunch for my son and went into the pantry to grab the bag of cheese puffs. It was the big bag, the one we keep on the top shelf. He had some as a snack after school the day before.

The bag was wide open.

It was sitting exactly where it always sits, but unfolded, unsealed, left the way it was when he last touched it.

He knows to fold the bag over. We’ve talked about using a chip clip to keep it closed. I suspect he remembered that he needed one, looked for it, didn’t see it in the basket where they usually are—probably because something was in front of them—and stopped there. He’s not great at moving things out of the way to see if what he’s looking for is behind them. And instead of asking for help, he put the bag back on the shelf and walked away.

This happens a lot.

The cereal bag left open on the counter. A piece of recycling placed on top of the bin instead of inside it. A dish in the sink instead of the dishwasher. His lunchbox still holding an apple core or a wrapper from earlier that day.

It can feel like I’m following his tracks through the house, noticing the small places where things were almost finished. Little markers of effort that ran out just before the end.

I don’t get mad when I find the bag open again. I recognize it as a place where his awareness ended that day.

I offer gentle reminders. Sometimes they stick for a while. Sometimes they fade, and weeks later I find the cereal bag open again on the top shelf. Not because he doesn’t care. Not because he’s being careless. But because holding all the steps—seeing the problem, finding the tool, moving obstacles, finishing the task—can be more than his brain can manage in that moment.

This is what a lot of caregiving looks like.

Not emergencies. Not hospital rooms. Not big, dramatic moments. Just quiet maintenance. Picking up what was left behind. Closing the loops that didn’t quite get closed. Learning to read these small, unfinished things not as failures, but as information.

They tell me where his energy ran out. Where his attention drifted. Where the world became just a little too much to hold all at once.

So I fold the bag. I clip it shut. I rinse the lunchbox. I don’t sigh. I don’t lecture. I just keep walking behind him, filling in the gaps.

This is part of how I love him.

Lost in the Story

Recently, we started watching Stranger Things.

For most families, that means settling into the couch, grabbing snacks, and diving into the next episode. For us, it means something different.

In between episodes, I have to remind him of what happened last time—who the characters are, what they’re trying to do, how the story left off. Even when we watched it the day before. Sometimes the same day.

And when the new episode starts, I keep the remote close.

Not to skip the scary parts.

Not to turn up the volume.

But to pause.

To explain.

To anchor him to what’s happening on the screen and how it connects to what came before.

Sometimes it’s a quick reminder. Other times it’s a full recap: “That’s Will’s mom. Remember, she’s the one who put up all the Christmas lights. And these guys are going into the Upside Down. It’s like that dark world we saw last episode.”

Sometimes he nods.

Sometimes he asks more questions.

Sometimes the explanation drifts away as quickly as it landed.

It’s like this with every show. Every movie. A remote in one hand, a thread of the story in the other, trying to keep him connected to something that keeps slipping through his fingers.

A few weeks ago, I read Still Alice, the book about a woman losing pieces of herself to Alzheimer’s. There’s a moment where her husband brings home movies because books have become too hard—too much to hold onto, too much to follow. Movies were supposed to be easier. But even those became confusing when scenes blurred together and storylines couldn’t be kept straight.

She could no longer follow the thread of the plot or the significance of characters who weren’t in every scene. She could appreciate small moments but retained only a general sense of the film after the credits rolled.

She wouldn’t understand why her family reacted the way they did to something on the screen, so she matched their expressions and faked the same reaction to protect them from how lost she was.

Watching movies made her keenly aware of how lost she was.

That part stopped me because it felt uncomfortably familiar.

My son is not losing memories the way Alice was. His brain works differently for different reasons. But the impact is similar. He can’t follow all the threads. He struggles to remember the significance of characters who aren’t in every scene.

And yet, he wants to watch these shows. He wants to enjoy them. He loves the characters, the action, the mystery. He wants to be part of the story.

This is where the questions start to land heavy for me. I wonder if he is aware of how lost he is. I don’t know if he knows any different. But he probably sees that not everyone is lost. He knows that I am not lost.

Does he think this is a common thing for kids his age? Does he believe you need to be a grown-up to follow the threads? Or does he know, somewhere inside, that this confusion is something uniquely his?

I don’t have those answers. But I do know that every time I reach for the remote, I am not just pausing a show. I am trying to make sure he never feels like he has to fake understanding to keep up. I am trying to meet him where he is, in the spaces between the story he wants to follow and the story he is able to hold.

Ballpark Memories

Growing up, I didn’t spend much time with my biological father. My parents divorced when I was two, and my mother had custody of my sister and me.

Our father would pick us up for holidays, or to swim in our grandparents’ pool on those hot New England summer days. We would occasionally visit his mother in New Hampshire. But my favorite visits were the ones when he would take us to New York to see the Yankees.

A few weeks ago, a friend gifted my son and me tickets to see the Philadelphia Phillies. It was our first game this season, and I’m glad we got at least one in before the season ended.

Since it was just the two of us, it reminded me of the Yankee games with my father. I remember going to the games early and watching the players warm up. I remember running down to the first row next to the field, getting a closer look at them, and catching a ball tossed into the stands as they left the field. But even though I know he was there, I don’t remember my father at those games.

I don’t remember having meaningful father-son conversations. I don’t remember even talking about the game. I don’t remember us joking or celebrating the wins and the dramatic plays, or sharing the misery and disappointment of a defeat. It wasn’t a shared experience.

As I sat there with my son, I wondered how he would look back on this time with me. Will he remember how we bring our gloves to every game in case of a fly ball? Will he remember how I act surprised every time he eats an inhuman amount of hot dogs or a whole pizza? Will he remember how we call out to our favorite players, and will he see me on the other side of the high fives after a big play?

I am not trying to rewrite the past, but I can shape the present. My father’s absence taught me how important it is to be fully present when we are together. Not just sitting in the seat next to my son, but sharing in the joy, the laughter, and the heartbreak that come with the game.

I don’t just want him to remember going to games.

I want him to remember that we went together.