Parking

I worked for my favorite client yesterday. She knows about my mom and reads this blog from time to time. She shared a story about one of her colleague’s visits to the doctor for menopausal memory loss. The doc asked this person, “Do you remember where you park your car?” The colleague replied, “Well, sure.” The doctor reassured her, “… I don’t care how many words you forget, or how many people’s names don’t stick in your head. If you recall where you park your car, or even the general direction where your car is as you step out of the mall, you’re just fine.” My client and I compared notes on how well we faired under this litmus test and decided we were doing OK.

As I worked on removing dead wood from my client’s beautiful maples, it came to me that this is why my mom always wants to move her car when in (the tiny) town on the Island. We can park in front of the market, do her daily shopping, and then decide to head to the kitchen shop (less than a block away). Mom always wants to repark the car. This has never made sense to me. She’ll walk for over a mile on the road in her country sub-division, but doesn’t want to cross the street in town. It’s a compensatory habit or skill. If the car is right outside the shop she’s in, she won’t lose it. Every time we exit a shop, she asks me where the car is. When I left the Island on the 10th, I put my truck in line, took my life in my hands and got in her car, which we then parked. After 45 minutes of strolling around we walked to the ferry line where I time to give her a hug and kiss, jump into the truck, and drive onto the boat. I wonder how long it took her to find her car :-(. 

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