Nature must provide some sort of tranquilizer that kicks in as we approach the end of life, allowing us to accept the unacceptable. Otherwise why am I not more alarmed that I can’t remember the titles of movies or the authors of books or the names of public figures that have been familiar to me for years? Usually they come back easily when I stop searching for them, but at other times I have to find the book or consult the Internet. I believe many people in my age group experience this.

More distressing to me is when I can’t find the word I’m looking for, the exact one I know exists because it’s right there on the tip of my brain. Verbal accuracy is important to me, one of my basics. Losing it is a truly fearsome thing. So I struggle and strain and haunt Thesaurus.com.

And yet I accept. I concede.

For one thing, I’m still intact My slippage may look to others like I’m losing it, but underneath the errors my mind is still my own, still functioning normally, or at least it seems to me that it is. It’s slower, I’ll admit. I miss a lot, catch myself being obtuse or heedless in what I notice, remember, or say. But my underlying quest goes on—for enlightenment, understanding, and connection. To myself I’m as intelligent as I ever was. I may ramble when I’m talking to a daughter, but I hope it’s because my need for companionship spills over and I’m rushing to be heard. I try to watch out for that, with limited success.

I accept these things because I have to, the way I accept my decline in physical mobility, the ludicrousness of caring about what I wear or how my hair looks, the fallacy of thinking I still have any credibility with younger people.

I know I’m lucky to have lived this long. I know that what lies ahead may be hard to endure, so I embrace the comfort and stability of today while it lasts. The future will come soon enough. I can’t do a thing to stop it. What foolishness it would be to lose what remains to me of time and appreciation and joy.