Say You'll Remember Me

Every once in a while, a story finds you at exactly the right time. I just finished one of those books. I was ready to try a new author and was pleasantly surprised by what Abby Jimenez had to offer in Say You'll Remember Me, a beautiful love story — funny, tender, heartbreaking — even giving a little shout out to Monett, Missouri, where I once lived. It made me laugh. It made me cry. And unexpectedly, it made me sit with one of my deepest fears.

Dementia.  I specifically worry about Alzheimer’s a lot. 

I didn’t grow up loving books. In fact, I avoided reading most of my childhood, so thankful for my mom who would often read to me when I just couldn’t do it. It wasn’t until my late 20s that I realized I likely had a reading disability. Suddenly it made sense why I “hated” reading. But I persevered anyway. I finished college. I went on to earn my Educational Specialist degree. I learned how to adapt before I even knew that’s what I was doing.  Now you’ll find me with multiple books going at once — one by my recliner, an audiobook for commute days, something on my nightstand, and a copy of Eat, Pray, Love tucked in my work bag for when I need to check out for a few minutes.

I recently started reading Outlive by Peter Attia, hoping to learn more about longevity and how to better manage my health, especially with autoimmune struggles. I didn’t realize how deeply the book dives into Alzheimer’s disease. Attia calls it one of the “Four Horsemen” of aging — alongside heart disease, cancer, and type 2 diabetes.  Genetically speaking, I seem to have hit the lottery for all four.  But Alzheimer’s scares me the most.  Not just the disease itself — but the idea of forgetting.   When Outlive began to feel overwhelming, I set it aside and picked up a “fun” love story… about dementia.

Ironic? Maybe.

But dementia is not new to me.  I first met Alzheimer’s more than 30 years ago. My Grandma Moser was the first person I ever knew who was touched by it. We moved into her house after she was placed in a nursing home. I was in fifth grade.  My grandma was spunky. A little grouchy. Fiercely protective. She always shared her Andes mints with me — always the green ones.

As her disease progressed, my mom and I spent countless hours with her. We’d sit with the TV Guide and mark her favorite shows — writing down times and channels. When numbers became confusing, we placed colored dots on the television buttons and matching dots on her legal pad so she could still find her programs.

Grandma was an escape artist long before “memory care” facilities existed. I remember answering our landline once to hear someone from the local Ford dealership say, “Hey Christy, your Grandma Moser is down here trying to buy a new car. Would you mind coming to get her?”  So we would go. And gently bring her back.

As I grew older, I began to understand more. I saw the confusion in her eyes when she didn’t recognize me. I saw how it quietly broke my dad. He rarely went to the nursing home. We didn’t talk about it. But as an adult, I understand now — in his heart, that wasn’t his mom anymore.  Her disease lasted nearly eight years. She passed away shortly after my senior year of high school.  Watching someone slowly vanish is its own kind of grief.  That experience shaped me.

Which brings me to why I started this blog.  At first, I told myself it was just something to pass the time. Something to give me purpose as my kids step into adulthood and need me differently than they once did.  But then I remembered one of my top ten books — The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch.  At the end of his famous lecture, devoted to lessons in living, he asks, “Have you figured out the second head fake?” Then he reveals the truth:  “The talk wasn’t just for those in the room. It was for my kids.”

When I asked Kaleigh recently if she had read my blog, she smiled and said, “Mom, they’re just too long.”  I smiled back.  That’s okay.  Someday — far down the road, I hope — they’ll be there.  Maybe this is my second head fake.  Maybe this blog isn’t just about processing my health frustrations, my autoimmune journey, or my reflections on books. Maybe it’s about preserving pieces of myself. About documenting how I think, what I love, what scares me, what I’ve learned.

Alzheimer’s disease cannot currently be cured or reversed once symptoms begin. But what struck me in Outlive is the emphasis on prevention — on doing what we can now.

·       Exercise to improve blood flow and insulin sensitivity.

·       Prioritizing sleep so the brain can clear metabolic waste.

·       Continuing to learn and challenge the mind to build cognitive reserve.

·       Staying socially connected.

·       Caring for overall metabolic health.

·       Reading. Writing. Reflecting.

I once avoided books because they felt impossible. Now I juggle several at a time. That transformation alone reminds me that the brain is adaptable. Resilient. Capable of growth.  I am not powerless.  Maybe I can’t control genetics. Maybe I can’t predict the future. But I can live intentionally today. I can build something meaningful now.  If Alzheimer’s ever becomes part of my story, it will not be the whole story.  These words will remain. The stories. The laughter. The hard truths. The faith.  They are mine.  Alzheimer’s may touch memory.  But it cannot erase the mark a life leaves behind.