The forgetfulness of my father, Rod, is legendary in my family. Though probably a worrying sign of the eventual onset of Alzheimer’s, we choose instead to regard the lapses in memory with humour, adding them to the story of our family. The following story in particular stands out in my mind.
It was a regular weekday morning, and I was at school. My mother, Mae, was at home, asleep after working a night shift in the psychiatric ward, when the phone rang and woke her. It was my father calling from the lab at the hospital where he worked:
Mae: Hello?
Rod: Hi, this is Kimberley Hospital with a blood products request.
Mae: Rod?
Rod: Yeah, this is Rod Wilson. Who is this?
Mae: Mae!
Rod: Oh…Mae who?
Mae: Mae, your wife!
Rod: Oh! Hi Mae!
Mae: Hi…
Rod: What are you doing at the blood clinic?
Needless to say, my mother didn’t ever work at the blood clinic. In a moment of supreme amnesia, my father had picked up the phone and dialled the first number that entered his head. It just so happened that the number was his own home phone number.
Sure, it’s funny. But sometimes I worry: Is this going to happen to me?
