Deep inside the human brain, in crevices and channels invisible to MRI scans and high-resolution CTs, lie reservoirs of memory that never run dry. They may overflow occasionally in a current of tears of happiness or sorrow — sometimes in a trickle, sometimes in a torrent — these subcortical pools are invariably replenished from uncharted wellsprings even deeper inside the brain, in regions known only to a few. After two decades practicing medicine, I am still amazed that no passage of years, no accumulation of decades, diminishes the freshness of this water. It is always clean. It is always clear. And it is timeless.
Mrs. Dorothy Anderson is one of the chosen few who knows the wellsprings and reservoirs of the human brain. She is 96 years old and all five feet of her are just as perky as you could possibly want. Her mind is crisp and bright. She’s outlived two previous primary care doctors, a fact that gave me only a brief pause when we first met 12 years ago. But I was a bit younger then and less attuned to my own mortality. “What the heck,” I thought when I first took her on as a patient, “she won’t outlive me.”
Mrs. Anderson is also one of the chosen few in that she has had essentially no medical problems during her life on earth. Blood pressure of 130/80. Cholesterol, measured once many years ago, 165. She never had a reason to visit the pharmacy. She came in to my office once a year and rarely took more than 15 minutes of my time. She was truly a blessing, the sort of patient any doctor would love.
A year ago, for the first time, Mrs. Anderson came in with a cane. Though she still had not complaints attributable to her 95 years of living, her gait was more hesitant. Getting on the exam table was a minor struggle. Nonetheless, everything checked out fine and she seemed at peace.
That was a year ago. When I recently saw Mrs. Anderson’s name on my morning schedule, I smiled. I’m always on the lookout for bright spots, and Mrs. Anderson certainly filled the bill.
In the exam room that day, Mrs. Anderson was as cheerful as ever, but she had obviously grown one year older since her last visit. Time could not be denied indefinitely, I thought, and something will probably turn up soon. As before, though, the interval history took only a few minutes. She had nothing major to report. Her review of systems was negative.
Then Mrs. Anderson changed subjects. “This real estate market is something else.”
“Yes, it sure is,” I said, not sure where this was going.
“I just got an unbelievable offer on my house,” said Mrs. Anderson.
“Unbelievable good or unbelievable bad?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose it was both,” she responded.
I noticed Mrs. Anderson’s eyes misting slightly. “It was a much higher offer than I expected.”
“Oh, that’s great,” I said.
“Maybe,” she responded. Her face began to look more drawn. “But now I have to move. I’m moving to Merrill Gardens, an assisted living facility. It’s going to be hard to move. Where do I put all my things?”
“Maybe you could use of those storage places,” I ventured. From looking at her face, I could tell this idea was not very helpful.
“It’s hard to move out of a house you’ve lived in for 82 years,” said Mrs. Anderson.
OK, now she had me. I quickly did the subtraction, then said, “Eighty-two years? You’ve lived in the same house since you were 14 years old?”
“Yes,” she said, “except for two years after I got married. My dad built the house on the Mare Island Straits in 1918. My husband and I moved out in 1922 after we got married, but moved back in ’24. I’ve lived there ever since.”
I tried to imagine 82 years of memories tied to every wall and beam and stair step. Every creak of the floorboards telling a tale of lives lived, and lives lost, over eight decades. Her husband had died 15 years ago in that house.
Mrs. Anderson went on to tell me a couple of other stories about her early life in Vallejo, her eyes watering as she recalled periods of turbulence, and quieter times as well.
She then said, “When my house was first built, it was the talk of the town. It was so new and clean. But that year was actually a terrible year. 1918.”
“Why?” I asked.
“There was such a terrible flu epidemic. We moved into that house and we were so happy, but there were so many people dying. The ambulances went past our house day and night.”
She then paused, her eyes brimming with tears.
I asked, “Did any of your friends die?”
Mrs. Anderson gazed into space, not wanting to answer. Her tears increased, streaming down her cheeks, her neck rigid. I could not tell who she was crying for. Was it for friends whose deaths 82 years ago she felt as intimately as if they happened last week? Her parents’ deaths long ago? Was it for her husband’s death 15 years ago? Was it for the impending loss of a houseful of memories intertwined over the course of eight decades?
I tried to hand Mrs. Anderson a tissue, but she waved it off. “No, it’s OK. Tears are good. They can make things better.”
Feeling our visit was coming to a close, I stood up, feeling a bit awkward, and gave Mrs. Anderson a quick hug.
“Don’t worry about me,” said Mrs. Anderson, her eyes crinkling into a teary smile. “I’ll be fine. I’ll find someplace to store the things from that house. There are places. I will find them.”
As I left the exam room, I knew that Mrs. Anderson had already stored the most important items from her home of 82 years. She had found a place to keep them, close at hand, in her own personal reservoirs where the water is always fresh. No matter how many years have passed by.
(September 2000)