My grandfather’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis mercilessly woke me up to the fragility of memory.
His diagnosis in his mid-60s was a relentless reminder that my recollections, the threads that weave together my being, are susceptible to unraveling without warning.
In the wake of his death, the spectre of dementia ignited a deep-seated fear of forgetting. This fear, known as athazagoraphobia, is my constant companion, a nagging reminder of the ephemeral nature of life.
My worst nightmare is losing the tapestry of my personal history, all the small details that make up my bigger picture. I fear a future where the faces of those I love fade to anonymity, the taste of my favourite foods dissipates into the ether, the landscapes of my travels blur into obscurity, and the sparks of my inspiration are extinguished in a fog of forgetfulness.
I’m acutely aware that dwelling on “what ifs” is a ruthless destroyer of intentionally appreciating the present. In my pursuit of preservation, I often find myself losing focus of the moments under my nose that imbue my life with meaning. Instead of fully relishing in the now, my attention drifts while anxiously scanning the horizon for signs of impending doom.
I saw what this vicious, infuriating, ugly, and destructive disease did to my grandmother, so I wouldn’t wish it on a soul.
She was simultaneously my grandfather’s caregiver and doting wife, telling him one-sidedly about our lives and hiding the tears rolling down her cheeks on the way to the parking lot after leaving his long-term care facility. It’s this silent anguish, this unspoken torment, that fuels my fear. It’s a fear born from love but the thought of inflicting unconscious pain on my loved ones in a burden too heavy to bear. And so, I cling to my memories with fierce determination, refusing to let them slip away into the void of forgetfulness.
My mind is a thousand elsewheres. My greatest hurdle is the inability to stay present, focusing intently on mental slippage out of my control. I’m working on getting better at it. I try to treat it like a migraine I know it’s there, but I try not to think about it because it only makes it hurt more.
I grew up hearing Alzheimer’s skips a generation. Having buried my grandfather two winters ago at the age of 18, the looming abstraction of dementia has become a ghost of profound contemplation. The crippling fear of letting memories me by has caused me to over-compensate by over-documenting my life, as if clinging desperately to souvenirs in a futile attempt to escape the cruel bounds of time will stop me from forgetting.
In my best effort to stall, taking pictures is my reminiscent medium of choice, exemplified by the exorbitant amount of money I pay every month for Google Photos storage.
I find reassuring solace in revisiting pictures and videos I’ve taken to document my beautiful, hard, testing, monotonous, and busy days. I’m itching to it all.
In 2015, the release of Pixar’s animated film, Inside Out, struck a chord with audiences, offering a compelling glimpse into the inner of emotions a young girl adjusting to a new environment. One of the film’s most striking visual metaphors is the Memory Dump, a chasm where fading memories are dumped, destined to vanish into the ether once forgotten entirely.
In 2015, my grandfather was already living in a long-term care facility. Faced with the cruel reality of a loved one’s memory slipping away, the impulse to cling to memories drove me to capture every fleeting moment in a frantic bid to preserve what remains. My camera was my lifeline, a tangible anchor tethering me to my memories and their essence—resisting their fate, imminently bound for the Memory Dump.
I’ve been fortunate enough to visit over 20 countries in my lifetime. Countless times during my travels, I’ve found myself before dramatic cliffsides, impressive temples, and historic monuments, willing myself to them. Unconsciously, I open my eyes a little wider and, like a mantra, remind myself how remarkable and worthy of ing these memories are—almost always accompanied by a picture of the view or the person I was with.
Over-documenting throughout my life isn’t new. On my eighth birthday, I was gifted a digital camera. This present became the catalyst for my journey with memory, perception, and appreciation.
I clicked away, capturing the smiles of my parents, the laughter of my sister, and the antics of weekend playdates with friends. Here, I discovered beauty in the everyday and grew an insatiable curiosity to make sense of the world around me, sharpening my eye for detail and honing my appreciation for fleeting moments that comprise the bigger picture. Each snapshot served as a cherished memento, allowing me to consistently relive the joys, sorrows, and triumphs of days gone by.
Today, as I leaf through ever-expanding photo albums, I’m reminded of birthday parties, afternoons outside, playdates, and other moments I would’ve otherwise forgotten. Though faces have changed and landscapes evolved, the essence of what drew me to over-documenting my life remains unchanged, now exacerbated by fears of losing souvenirs.
My journey with memory is a constant balancing act, a delicate equilibrium of preservation and clinging, and acceptance and appreciation. While the fear of forgetting lingers, I find solace in knowing every moment worth cherishing is documentable via a camera lens. I will always be the person posing friends for group photos, snapping pictures of loved ones cutting cake on their birthdays, and capturing the sky every time it beams orange. I’m sure in my later years I’ll look back on this habit favourably; I know I do now.
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