When I
was a sophomore in college, I took part in a televised debate about the future
of the Western Washington University football program. It was the early
eighties, and the state, like much of the nation, was mired in recession. Staff
layoffs were looming, and some untenured professors were in danger of losing
their jobs. For people who didn’t care about football—or found the sport
immoral—this was the time to scrap the football program forever. My opponent
was Greg Sobel, who at the time was the student body president. While Sobel
marshaled his facts and figures, I fell back on an organic conservative argument
that I had learned from one of my political theory textbooks. This wasn’t Adam
Smith’s economics, concerning the “invisible hand” of the marketplace. It was the
thinking of the late-eighteenth-century British statesman Edmund Burke, an
astute critic of the French Revolution: Change should be gradual; don’t scrap a
venerable institution—in this case, a college football program that had endured
at least 80 years but eventually was terminated in 2oo9. When I debated Sobel
under the lights of the television studio, I was almost entirely at ease.
But this post isn’t about football; nor is it about the
French Revolution. It’s about how wary I am these days of speaking publicly
without a text in my hands. Roughly two years ago, when I was part of a panel discussion
about Alzheimer’s, in Brockton, Massachusetts, I had no difficulty speaking
fluidly in front of an audience. But in November,
in a very similar situation, I was feeling anxious. I did bring a prepared
statement, but in the spirit of the forum, I was determined to field any
questions that came my way. It is no surprise that, given that I’m now
five-and-one-half years down the Alzheimer’s trail, that I would be
experiencing more pronounced difficulties with the spoken word. But I didn’t
anticipate just how steadily my train-of-thought function has been
deteriorating. This last May, I rode with several friends to see a friend’s
play in upstate New York. For hours, another friend of mine and I conversed.
Over the two-day trip I lost my train of thought many, many times.
Much more awkward was a recent incident in
Marlborough, Massachusetts, on November 9. Just before the forum, I started
writing notes of what I wanted to speak to, but soon the panel discussion was
underway, and I felt ill-prepared. And sure enough, when I launched into my answer,
within a matter of 15 or 20 seconds, I lost my train of thought. I’m not sure anyone
see my face go red; I could certainly feel it. I was now on a bridge to nowhere,
in front of perhaps 200 people. I did manage to get back on track, and I even drew
some laughs when I imitated the electronic male voice that spoke to me when I was
trying to add more credit to my subway pass: You’re running out of time.
You’re running out of time. Still,
the experience in Marlborough humbling.