Lost Memories

It was heartbreaking. The love of my life of twenty years was a vacant vessel. I’d look in her eyes for any sign of recognition. Nada, nothing! The only response I could elicit was:

“Do I know you?”

Jolene had always been the belle of the ball. The sharpest mind and tongue in the room. I was smitten with her the first time we met at the university. She had that southern drawl and blonde southern look. I was ready to dismiss her as a typical empty-headed southerner looking for a husband. Coming from the east coast, I had my biases. My ego was inflated by my standing in the PHD program in the history department. Ironically, my thesis was on the Civil War. So, my views of southerners were a bit tainted.

When Jolene first attended my tutorial on the Civil War, I was stuck by her natural beauty. She had long blonde hair, high cheek bones, deep blue eyes and wore no makeup. Her torn jeans and Che Guevara tee-shirt should have dispelled any preconceived impression I had. They didn’t. I was shocked by her probing questions and perceptive observations. The slow drawl belied a quick mind and wit. Unlike most other students, she had done her homework before attending my class.

“This war was not about state rights. It was about slavery.”

She was rebutting a fellow student’s comments.

A few moments later she challenged the same student’s comments about General Grant’s drinking problem.

“Oh, come on! Although he was predisposed to alcoholism and would lose control when he did drink, his drinking problem was much exaggerated. The press and political opponents used as a cudgel against him. His wife and closest advisor, John Rawlins kept him in check.”

I quickly realized that this was no empty-headed girl. Not only was she well read but she showed signs of critical thinking, an art lost to most of my students. They regurgitated facts but rarely examined their implications. Jolene was the exception.

The one-hour tutorial would change my life forever. I had only recently become a tutor and didn’t know the rules. Still, I had to get to know this student better. It was awkward and I wasn’t sure how to proceed but she made it easy. After class, she approached me.

“Excuse me professor.”

I smiled and shook my head.

“I’m not a professor. I’m just a PHD student.”

She chuckled.

“Okay, Mr. PHD student, I was wondering if you could recommend some books on Reconstruction and Andrew Johnson. I’m afraid my family fed me a lot of southern propaganda. I’ve been trying to read as much objective history about it as I can, but I have a lot of catching up to do. Most books I’ve read here have Northern bias. Can you recommend any that might be more objective?”

I laughed.

“Most books written at the time will have either a Northern or Southern bias. Contemporary accounts may be more objective. Caroline Janney, Aaron Sheehan-Dean and Kate Masur are just some of the authors I could recommend. Have you read any books by them? You seem to be pretty well read and knowledgeable about the era.”

Jolene nodded.

“It was hard not to be. My father is a distant relative of Robert E. Lee. My bedtime stories as a child often were about the Civil war and the Antebellum. From an early age, I rebelled and wanted to know the other side. I rejected my family’s victimhood and read as many history books as I could. Your course was first on my list when I enrolled at the U. I researched your background before signing up. You don’t seem to have a northern or southern bias although Wisconsin was a Union state.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“You certainly did a deep dive. I haven’t lived in Wisconsin since high school. I did my undergrad studies at the University of Texas, certainly part of the deep south.”

Jolene smiled again.

“Yup, I saw that. I figured you’d be more apt to see both sides.”

I took my briefcase from my desk and walked with Jolene towards the exit. My next class was not for another hour, and I was going to eat my lunch under a large oak tree in the quadrangle. I stopped in front of the tree and was about to bid Jolene farewell, when she asked if she could join me.

“I’ve seen you eat your lunch here for several weeks. Do you mind if I join you? I’d like to continue our discussion.”

I didn’t know how to react. I had dated students before but never as their teacher. What was the protocol? Maybe I was jumping the gun, and this was just an innocent request. I had to admit she was like no other student I had ever met. She was beautiful, intelligent and confident. Should I have been spooked that she had observed my lunch habits for weeks? Was she a stalker? I had to admit I was intrigued. Later, I discovered that she had admired me from afar and always knew we were fated to be soulmates. That was my Jolene.

***

Loeb and Loeb, that’s how we signed papers and books we authored together. We were married the year after Jolene finished the PHD program. We both accepted faculty positions at the University of North Carolina. Jolene changed her last name as well as first. She was officially Jo Loeb. Dolly Parton’s song Jolene was the last straw. She always hated her name.

We wrote several papers on the Civil War, Antebellum and Reconstruction. Jo became restless and bored. Not only did she want to research different eras, but she also wanted to branch out and flex her writer’s muscles. Once we had our two kids, Brenda and John, she became interested in early education. Surprisingly, Bill and Ted’s Excellent adventure was one of her favorite films. Two stoners travelling through time and meeting historical figures was like candy to a history geek. She remembered every line in the movie. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that she had a photographic memory. It always amused me that after hearing a few bars of any song, she could name the singer, the writer and the year the song was released. Of course, she could remember dates of battles, elections and virtually every detail of any book she had read. It was intimidating. She also had an uncanny way of relating to kids and had the kind of patience I could only dream of.

Reading the Harry Potter series with the kids gave her an idea. She’d create a character who could travel through time and participate in historical events. He’d be given the choice of outcomes and be forced to use critical thinking. The character would have sidekicks, all with magical powers. Harry Potter meets Bill and Ted with a little bit of Woody Allen’s Zelig mixed in. Our kids were thrilled with her first draft. Their approval was all she needed to forge ahead. Her fame as a historian and published author opened doors and soon the first in a series of historical fiction/ fantasy books was published. It was an instant sensation. Parents and kids read it together and clamored for sequels. Of course, the first book took place in the Civil War. The sequel followed Lewis and Clark’s expedition. The third had the gang riding with Paul Revere. The fourth diverged from American history and had the gang storming the bastille.

Jo was gaining international recognition, and her books were replacing boring mainstays on grade and high school curriculums. She was making history accessible and enjoyable and accomplishing her goals while having fun. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t last. It was just after her forty-fifth birthday that I noticed that the writing of her fifth sequel had stalled. Uncharacteristically, she couldn’t remember details of the Burr/ Hamilton duel and had to reread some reference books, I knew there was a problem. After several weeks of failing to meet her publisher’s deadline, I began to ask questions.

“Honey is everything alright? I know you’re under immense pressure, but I’ve never known you to miss a deadline before.”

Jo frowned and shook her head.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just can’t remember details of the duel. I read several books about it years ago.”

I smiled and squeezed her arm.

“The passage of time has a way of eroding all memories.”

Jo shook her head.

“It never has for me before.”

I patted her back.

“You’ve never been forty-five before.”

Jo chuckled.

“You really know how to make a girl feel good about aging. I’m forty-five not eighty-five.”

I nodded and smiled.

“You’re right. I think you’re overtired. This is probably just a blip.”

But it wasn’t. Her memory began to fail in many different ways. She forgot names and events. I watched her strain to come up with the name of a song. She missed appointments and got lost on the way to familiar places. Her personality began to change. She was impatient and irritable. I could tell she was frustrated and scared. Eventually, she agreed to see a neuropsychologist. After extensive testing, he made the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. We were all devastated. How could this have happened? There was no family history.

Initially, Jo accepted the diagnosis and found ways to compensate for her failing memory. She’d write notes to herself and post photos of important people on the fridge. I was proud of her and wondered if I’d be as brave or creative. Still, her personality coarsened, and she was quick to anger. After a year, she started to have discussions with historical figures. At the beginning, I’d play along and enter the discussions. I found it almost humorous. Eventually, Jo would be frustrated with my lack of response to questions posed by her imaginary characters. So, I stopped humoring her. She began to lose her ability to speak. We hired a caretaker, but Jo would evade her and leave the house unattended. After an evening, when we found her running naked down the street, I knew it was time. We placed in a locked facility.

I visited her daily and we’d have brief conversations. Her vocabulary was diminishing rapidly. She was also having difficulty swallowing. The doctor had told me that demented patients forget how to do it. He considered placing a feeding tube into her stomach. However, the next day, she aspirated her dinner and was in extreme distress. Considering her physical and mental status, we decided not to take heroic measures. She deteriorated rapidly. Her eyes were closed when I arrived on that final day. I squeezed her hand. She opened her eyes momentarily and mouthed the words: “Do I know you?”

I kissed her one last time. It was the ultimate irony. The woman with the photographic memory could not remember her soulmate. She’d die without her memories, but I’d always remember her.