On Futility, Loving Someone With Dementia, and Why Not Everything Has to Have Meaning

My mom, second from right. Research on dementia suggests it was already attacking her brain when this photo was taken, decades before her symptoms appeared. 

One of the last videos I have of my mother speaking features her lamenting the lies of online dating. She's 62 in the video, but still looks like a runway model: tall, with high cheekbones and perfect blonde ringlets. She's a retired marriage and family therapist, a musician, and smarter than everyone she meets. Unlike most women of her generation, she does not attempt to hide that fact.

"I don't know if they think they're going to grow before they arrive to our date," she sighs. "Maybe they just think they're going to grow on me? Like I'm supposed to get excited about a male tumor?" She points to our waiter, draws him over to us, and proceeds to interrogate him about why heterosexual men are so disappointing. "I'm not drunk," she reassures him. "This is natural. Disappointment with men is my natural state."

Four years later, at 66, she could no longer speak.

I watch this video on repeat, searching for signs of what was to come. There's now evidence that dementia lurks in our bodies, waiting in our cells, for 20 years or longer before it stages its attack. 

I see no signs, aside from her obvious humanity. That's warning enough. Time eventually robs all of us humans of everything we have. Sometimes it's in one catastrophic incident. More frequently it's in the slow erosion of aging, lost loved ones, and illness. We cannot predict when or how we'll lose our lives, our health, or our memories. It's terrifying. We have constructed elaborate rituals and cultural lies to avoid this reality.

Dementia forces us to face the futility of existence, and the fact that it will eventually end--probably in suffering and tragedy. There are no fairytales or lessons or triumphs of the human spirit in the cold story of dementia. There is beauty at looking at things the way they are. There's meaning there, even if we can't wrap things up into neat little packages.

Feminism Has an Ageism Problem

At 34, I'm still a year shy of no longer being considered a "young adult" in demographic polls. And yet I'm already experiencing a shift. I find that I have to spend a lot more time working to be relevant. As a writer, my paycheck depends on it. The death knell for my coolness finally sounded a few weeks ago, when I had to look up what the young people mean when they say they're doing or thinking something "low key."

It's happened. I am no longer young and cool (though, to be fair, I have never been cool). On top of that, I'm a mom. That's a double dose of irrelevance as far as young people are concerned. I'm not bothered by this. We all have to get old. I'd rather get old than get dead. Lately, though, I find myself wishing that young feminists would stop treating me like I'm already dead.

We need to talk about feminism's ageism problem.