For my uncle, vascular dementia was an aftereffect of multiple minor strokes. My uncle’s formal diagnosis was vascular dementia, or vascular cognitive impairment (VCI). So how is it that, as my family began reciting prayers, my uncle, too, remembered every single one? How is it that my uncle, who forgot so much, could barely speak, could no longer write, and could not perform daily functions, somehow remembered litanies of Arabic scripture? At fifteen, I chalked it up to God’s miracles, and, while even now I don’t doubt God’s role, I also know that what happened to my uncle can also be explained using cognitive psychology. From stories my aunt told me, he also forgot how to use the bathroom and swallow food. He could barely speak and could no longer write. He remembered no one from the past twenty years of his life. His hand shook uncontrollably, and he was not able to write out a single word, leaving instead only a squiggly, long line slashed across the lined page. “ Tayabbu, I heard you liked to write so I brought you a notebook and pen,” my brother said, then gently handed said items to my uncle, who muttered a shaky “thank you” before opening the notebook, uncapping the pen, and attempting to write. My uncle took his time to respond, glassy-eyed with stuttering lips, but he slowly pulled out a haphazard response resembling “by Allah’s grace, I am fine.” My dad then proceeded to ask more effortful questions, such as “do you remember me?” Or “do you remember your kids?” Or “this is my son, wife, and daughter, do you remember them?” My uncle just stared at my dad as he asked these things, eyes faraway with an uncertain smile as he replied in a hoarse voice “Only you, no one else.” A beat of silence passed, and then my brother stepped forward. “Brother, how are you feeling today?” is the closest approximation I can recall-their conversation was in Urdu. My dad, eyes heavy, took the first step and said the first words. The nurse wheeled him into a room so he could sit with us, and then promptly took off. I didn’t say much, and was all too eager to simply say my hellos and spectate. Seeing my uncle like this was disheartening but spending time with him was eye-opening. But now, he could barely say seven words, and my uncle, this fragile man in a wheelchair, was nearly unrecognizable. I don’t have many memories of my uncle, but one thing I remember being in complete awe of was that he was the only person in the world I knew who could make a seven-letter-word in Scrabble. Years and years ago, I remember this uncle of mine before he had become hindered by his health and subsequent cognitive impairments. The second stroke had taken his mobility, his memory, and his speech fluency. The first stroke had left him weak yet intact, but the second one had taken things from him. The big ones had been less than a year apart. We had come to visit my uncle, who’d undergone two major strokes and countless minor ones. I remember my trip to that rehabilitation facility in Maryland briefly, but the important parts are clear: I was with my parents and my brother. It was back in 2017 when I first learned that memory was a bit like a slot machine: you never knew what you’d end up with-or rather, you never knew what you’d be left with, after having had multiple strokes. Now, I see that what middle-school-me thought was “weird” is more complicated than I ever could’ve imagined. Some time ago, I realized a fundamental truth: that memory was weird.
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