My Second Heart Journey

ago. I can name actors who haven’t been on television since 1978. I remember things I did as a kid, the names of childhood friends, old phone numbers, and conversations that nobody else remembers having.

Then I walk into the kitchen and have absolutely no idea why I’m there.

I’ll stand in the middle of the room, looking around for clues.

Was I hungry?

Did I need something from the refrigerator?

Was I coming in here to tell Jeri something?

Did the dog send me?

Nothing.

Eventually, I walk back into the other room. Ten minutes later, I remember what I wanted. By then, I’m comfortable and don’t feel like getting back up.

The other day, I was looking all over the house for my phone. I checked the bedroom, the kitchen counter, the bathroom, and even under the couch cushions. I was getting annoyed because I knew I had just used it.

Then I realized I was holding it in my hand.

That’s not forgetfulness. That’s talent.

I’ve also searched for my glasses while wearing them. I’ve opened the refrigerator and stared inside as though the answer to life’s greatest mystery might be hiding behind the milk. I’ve walked out to the garage to get something, forgotten what it was, gone back into the house, remembered it, and then decided I didn’t need it badly enough to walk back out there again.

I call that energy conservation.

Sometimes I wonder if the transplant had something to do with it. Maybe ten hours of surgery, months in the hospital, anti-rejection medications, and everything else my body has been through scrambled a few wires. Or maybe I’m just getting older.

Either explanation works.

Still, it’s strange what the brain chooses to keep. I can forget why I entered the kitchen, but I can remember the theme song from a television show that went off the air fifty years ago. I can forget someone’s name five seconds after they introduce themselves, but I can remember an embarrassing thing I said in 1986 at three o’clock in the morning.

Apparently, my brain has priorities.

The good news is that most of the time, it’s funny. You have to laugh when you find the television remote in the refrigerator or discover you’ve been looking for something that’s already in your pocket.

Of course, there are moments when forgetting isn’t funny. After a heart transplant, medications and appointments matter. I have alarms for my pills, reminders on my phone, and Jeri, who is far more reliable than any alarm ever invented. I may forget why I walked into the kitchen, but I don’t fool around with the important stuff.

The rest of it, I try not to worry about.

Maybe forgetting a few things is the brain’s way of clearing out space. I’ve lived long enough to collect more memories than I know what to do with. Some are wonderful, some are painful, and some probably should have been deleted years ago.

If my brain needs to toss out the reason I walked into the kitchen to make room for another day with my new heart, I can live with that.

Now, what was I talking about?

Frederick M. Hueston author of MY Heart Journey book series(7/18/26)