I have lost
, yet again, my hearing aid. The left one. The one for my “good” ear. I have a memory of its beeping a message to me that the battery was running flat, and, after that…nothing.
So far, the other hearing aid is working adequately, or enough to hear conversations if I am a foot away from the speaker, or can fill in the blanks through lip-reading. Not brilliant, but enough to get through the school day without humiliating myself too badly. But I know that this cannot continue. And that, at some point, I must return to the Audiology department in town, and grovel for another one. Which will cost the NHS £200. It also means a possible meeting with the scary bloke who looks like he should be doing the Sauchiehall Street taxi shift on a Saturday night, but has somehow ended up mending old people’s hearing aids.
This is my life at the moment. This business of “misplacing” things. In the last week, I have misplaced my hearing aid, my daughter’s new swimming cap, and a packet of cystitis relief sachets.
They could be anywhere. A packet of CupaSoup which my husband had bought turned up in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. So did a packet of bacon. Well past its best.
It is not a new problem, but it is getting worse. I have no memory of where I put things down, if they are not in their designated “slots.” If someone or something distracts me in the process of putting the thing away… I see the internet versions of a comfort blanket that an untidy desk is a sign of a creative mind, and I wonder if it’s not more of a sign that the desk user is terrified of losing anything. Because, if it is somewhere in that pile on your desk, then it isn’t somewhere you can’t remember putting it.
There are a variety of resources online which are helpfully pointing at the menopause as a cause of this woolly-headed disorganisation. Maybe. I didn’t have the hormonally induced “baby head.” P.N.D, yes, but not “baby head.” The DBH sees it as me being on autopilot, when I have lots to do and lots on my mind. Well, cheers. How is one supposed to sort that? Do less, and let my daughter live even more in a house of squalor? Think less, and, somehow, be not me?
So far, barring the hearing aids, I haven’t lost anything truly important. But, at 47, losing things, or failing to remember where I have put things, is worrying.