When experiencing worsening recall, it's not wrong to ask to be treated more gently, especially because losing your memory can be scary and disorienting. Illustration / Marta Monteiro, The New York Times
Ask the Therapist columnist Lori Gottlieb advises a reader who wants his spouse to be more compassionate about his worsening recall.
Q: I’m a 70-year-old active man. I go to the gym, bowl and play billiards and poker. I’m enjoying my retirement, but I’m also experiencing memory loss.
The problem isn’t day-to-day memory, but going back beyond three years or so, my memories can be sketchy.
I recognise this, but my husband, 65, continues to remind me of my memory loss. For instance, I say, “Let’s watch Tom Cruise in War of the Worlds. I saw the ’50s version, but not this one.” He then says, “We watched it already.”
This upsets me because what I hear is, “You’re getting Alzheimer’s.”
He’s done it many times, and I try to explain how his comments hurt. He doesn’t see why they would because he’s simply stating a fact. I would like a more compassionate and understanding response. I’d take: “Oh honey, we had such a good time watching that movie. I remember how you kept comparing Cruise to Gene Barry!”
After my silent treatment for the next hour or so, he apologises, but it doesn’t come off as very sincere, particularly with repeated similar scenarios.
We’ve been together for 24 years. Is it wrong to ask that much?
From the therapist: It’s not wrong to ask to be treated more gently, especially because losing your memory can be scary and disorienting. It brings with it a heightened sense of vulnerability, and you want the person beside you to hold you with tenderness. But you’re likely to get a better response if you understand what’s happening beneath the surface. When one partner is dealing with a medical issue, both people in the relationship experience the challenge differently. And when the issue involves cognitive decline, the relationship faces a distinct kind of strain – one that threatens its identity.
Think of memory as a couple’s shared emotional archive, a unique compendium of stories and experiences written together over time. When one person’s memory begins to falter, both partners can feel especially scared and alone, each mourning the gradual erosion of the essential “us” of their relationship.
Those feelings can play out in the pattern you describe. When your husband says, “We watched it already,” you hear criticism – an unspoken “you’re slipping”. But he might actually be thinking, “You’re slipping away from me.” Meanwhile, you long for a response that bridges the growing gap between your memories. Not “You forgot,” but “I remember that moment with you.” You’re not asking him to ignore your memory loss – you’re asking him to stay connected through it.
But this can be complicated. While a part of him wants to stay connected, another might be trying to protect him by keeping emotional distance. You experience this as a lack of warmth or empathy, but for him, each memory lapse is a reminder of what you’re both losing. When people feel overwhelmed by painful emotions, they often retreat into the concrete and factual (“We watched it already”) as a way to shut out the ache: If he doesn’t remember having seen this movie together, what else will he forget? When will I stop recognising the person I know? Will he forget who we are – who I am?
As you grapple with what it’s like to forget, try to imagine what it’s like to be the partner who remembers. Some describe it as “grief in slow motion” – a mourning not just for what’s happening now, but for what lies ahead. Maybe your husband feels helpless, silently worrying about the future. What is it like for him to watch not only you, but parts of your relationship, begin to fade – and to face the possibility of becoming the sole memory-keeper of 24 deeply meaningful years?
These are the kinds of questions you should start discussing together. Instead of giving your husband the silent treatment – which is essentially an act of aggression – try letting your shared vulnerability draw you closer.
You can say: “We know I’m having memory issues. Can we talk about what we’re each afraid of, what we hope for, and how we can support each other through these changes?” Nothing should be off the table: what you each need to feel supported now and in the future; what wishes you have if a higher level of care is needed one day; how you can plan for this financially; and how to reduce burnout, guilt and resentment.
Talk about how to make space for honesty on both sides and what will help each of you feel less alone and more connected along the way. You can share how you’d want to be spoken to if things progress, what you wish to preserve, and what care means to you – medically, but also emotionally.
Creating space for this kind of honesty isn’t easy, but it can lead to the deepest possible intimacy. It’s an exquisite act of love to say: If I need help someday, I want you to have permission to get it – you don’t have to do it all alone. And he might find relief in saying: I feel helpless when you forget. I’m afraid of losing you slowly. I didn’t know how to talk about it, so I’ve focused on the facts instead of my feelings.
Finally, if you haven’t yet brought these concerns to a neurologist, make an appointment so you know what you are – and are not – dealing with. Different underlying conditions can affect long-term (but not short-term) memory, and you’ll do better as a couple navigating this when you have clarity on what’s causing these lapses, what treatments are available and what you can expect in terms of prognosis.
These conversations won’t take away the challenges of memory loss, but they can change how you both view it – from a source of isolation to an opportunity to learn how to hold each other close in the most cherished way possible.
This article originally appeared in The New York Times.
Written by: Lori Gottlieb
Photographs by: Marta Monteiro
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