When her confusion isn’t making her anxious, Myra is morbidly fascinated, even half-amused, by her diminishing cognitive function.
A while back I suggested she knit a little cardigan for her new great grand-daughter. The idea delighted her, but she kept veering into anxiety: she might not be able to follow the pattern, or work with two lots of wool, or remember how to cast on, etc.
She did remember when I put the wool and needles into her hand. Muscle memory kicked in. As her fingers flew to the task she looked visibly relieved. By the time she’d cast-on and clicked out two rows, she was cheerful and chatty.
— Funny, isn’t it? My brain can’t remember, but my fingers can.
— You used to knit a lot and were very good at it.
Again she became distracted so I picked up the knitting and did a row, muttering about how slowly I knitted by comparison with her, bemoaning the fact that I didn’t even understand the terminology in patterns. ST; G; CO.
--I wish they’d come up with a way to take what’s in my brain and transplant it into yours. Then the knowledge wouldn’t be wasted, she said.