Written by Katherine Thomas-Ferdinand as part of the Mapping an Uneven Path exhibition at Verulamium Museum.
Yesterday, I lost my washing-up gloves midway through a wash. They
materialised minutes later in the hallway, dripping water onto my freshly ironed
scarf. I couldn’t remember leaving the kitchen.
One in three people born in the UK today will eventually face dementia. Though a
daunting thought, often attributed to later years, memory loss - a core
characteristic of this condition - affects people at any age. Dementia can begin
as early as 30, with many other conditions, including ADHD, Lupus, Fibromyalgia,
ME and Anxiety, also claiming it as a symptom.
My relationship with memory loss began after experiencing total burnout at 28.
Initially this was linked to Adrenal Insufficiency, where overworked adrenal glands
(responsible for our fight-or-flight hormones) slow down or stop working due to
stress. Although they have since recovered, memory loss remains, now
accompanied by an onslaught of new conditions and symptoms that either serve
or gain sustenance from it.
Each day memory loss and its companions consume the how’s, the what’s, the
where’s, the why’s. Together they absorb words the moment they’re spoken.
This relentless foe feeds from every part of my life, hindering my ability to work,
to plan, to laugh, to relax. It devourers my drive and capacity to fulfil my goals,
passions and dreams.
And so I fight, clawing back scraps of nourishment for myself. My days - a
carefully crafted smorgasbord of to-do apps, post-it notes, whiteboard checklists,
calendar schedules, and alarms - each designed to aid my battle to remember.
My mind, a constant chatter - desperately grasping onto each of these morsels.
Grasping, grasping, grasping…gone.
It’s infuriating, embarrassing, but above all, exhausting.
And then comes the guilt.
The guilt of forgetting birthdays and key parts of conversations that matter to
my loved ones. The guilt of knowing I can’t always rely on myself and by default,
others can’t always rely on me.
I try hard, and often succeed, but equally often I do not.
And so I keep myself to myself. The effort to be reliable so draining that I just
want to let go, surrender what's left of me and float away, blissfully free from
relationships and responsibility.
Yet amidst all of this - and as with much in life - there are moments of pure
humour, celebration and connection.
Moments where I succeed in feeding myself or am patiently fed by others.
Moments where I am reminded that everything is okay, I am not alone, and that
despite my exhaustion and frustration, I am loved, valued, and can indeed laugh
and relax - if only for a moment.
Seeing the lost items from the Bathhouse at Verulamium was one such moment.
These familiar belongings from almost 2,000 years ago - hairpins, rings, and
other items left by past patrons - were a welcome reminder of how alike we all
are. My subconscious glanced upon them, smiled to itself, and uttered the words,
“Yep - that would’ve been me.”
For, whilst those items may not have been lost by people with a disability or
chronic illness, they could have been. They could have belonged to anyone. And
that is much the point.
The truth is, this spectrum of forgetfulness and memory loss is something we all
experience to varying degrees. They are humanity’s universal and immortal
companions.
So the next time I lose my gloves (or anything else), I hope I’ll remember these
lost items and again find peace, humour, and connection as I reflect on the
global and historical club I’ve unwittingly joined.
And if I don’t remember, well, that’s okay too.