No, not a pierced stud.
I've been noticing lately that I am grasping to find the right word I am searching for in that huge vocabulary bank I like to refer to as my "dumb ole' brain." It's not so frequent as to make me immediately assume early-onset Alzheimer's is in the here and now for me. But it's far more frequent than it ever was in the past. [And, yes, I can remember the past. Well, parts of it.]
I do not mean to make lightly of Alzheimer's. I'd hazard a guess that everyone reading this has had a relative with the disease or has seen the disease in action in real life rather than just in a made-for-TV movie. For me, it is my Grandfather and, much more recently, my mother-in-law, Flo. The early stages are an inconvenience or an annoyance for those around them. Subsequent stages are pure devastation for them and for those who love and care for them.
I guess I'm approaching the age where I start to worry -- for real -- about my own mortality. And I say "for real" because I was once an angst-filled teen who never thought she'd be 25. And I was once bemoaning with real fear the fact that I was turning 30. I'm way past those ages now. I am probably closer to death than closer to being a teenager. Now that's facing up to what's to come.
Dealing with chronic pain, which is pretty much what I've resigned myself to, perhaps leaves me paying better attention to other signs of deterioration within me. [Hey, maybe it's the drugs that has me blank out on words!?!] Maybe I'm not really suffering more frequently for a loss of a word. Maybe I'm just noticing it more.
Or maybe I'm just delusional. [Uh-oh.]