My Afterglow Moment: Music, Memory, and My Crippling Fear of Alzheimer’s

It’s very likely that I will contract Alzheimer’s in my lifetime. As a person who values his prolific memory as a core part of his identity, this statistic makes me feel hopeless. But I think that I might have found a way of fighting back.

Written by William Beachum

Illustrated by Lydia Walker

I didn’t know much about my grandfather while he was alive, but I’ll try to tell you what I’ve been told. 

I know that he loved Christmas. I couldn’t tell you any of the gifts he gave my father, but I learn of the love he gave him every time I wait on my childhood staircase to rush down the steps on the morning of the 25th. There are moments in that season where I feel him: my cousins watching the toy train go around the tree, the look in my dad’s eyes when I know he’s proud of his gift, the quick recovery of fallen stockings over my family’s fireplace. 

As much as he loved the holidays, he hated waiting. I knew that about myself before I knew that about him. There’s a story that’s always told about my grandfather: He was driving my dad and his family on a road trip, and they stopped at McDonald’s. When he was sick of hearing his kids argue about what to get, he yelled “Five large Cokes!” at the employee so they’d stop fighting. At that moment, my grandfather needed the chaos of the world to calm down, so he made it simpler for him and more fair for everyone involved. It’s in that story that I know where I got my need for things to make sense. 

What happened to him and what will happen to me still doesn’t make sense. 

I remember knowing, in my youngest years, that my grandfather had a disease that made him not remember as much as he should have. I would ask my family for the reason why this happened to him or what he did to make him that way. My father was so frustrated that he couldn’t explain the world to me — I had to figure it out myself. 

The same kid who didn’t understand why my grandfather was losing his memory was also told that his memory made him special. I was, and still am, able to remember my smallest emotions and my most distant friends in an extraordinary level of detail. I can remember settings and colors and lights and sounds and tastes with an undisturbed penchant for accuracy.

As an aspiring filmmaker and writer, this memory is my biggest tool. Because I can understand my past in great detail, it allows me to not only tell stories based on those experiences but also teach lessons based on what I learned from them. My memory is the basis of everything I have done and everything I want to do. I don’t know what I will do or who I will be when that memory is taken away from me because of my genetics. But I’ve known for a while that my memory will leave me someday, so I found a way to hold on to it.

Music and its emotions have always been deeply tied to my memory. It’s only by hearing certain songs in the ambiance of grocery stores or coffee shops that I am reminded of the memories that I hold dearest. Songs, to me, don’t just have lyrics and rhythm: They have people and moments inside of them. Songs hold the key to the memory that I have now, and I can only delusionally hope that key will still fit when the lock is harder to break. 

In the summer after 8th grade, I logged onto my mom’s Amazon Prime account and bought Jon Bellion’s The Human Condition on vinyl. At the time, I didn’t see this moment as anything special; if anything, a waste of money or a hint of rebellion. I know now that this moment would be the genesis of my way of fighting back.

I started buying records because it was a way of knowing that, even if everything else were taken away, I would at least have the memories held in the music that I love. Even if Spotify decides to charge hand-over-fist like a cable company or zombies take over the world, I know that at the end of the day, I own certain pieces of music that I hold dear. I can feel it in my hands.

Over the years, my vinyl collection has grown into something that I am incredibly proud of. I’ll be the first to admit that it’s not as diverse as it should be, especially for a music journalist. It’s mostly generic indie-pop fodder, with sprinkles of rap, rock, country, and soul filtered throughout. But within those 87 albums and EPs is the essence of who I am, given to me through other people’s musical confessions. 

In Alec Benjamin’s Narrated for You, I revive my 8th-grade self, who clings to innocence while everyone around him wants to seem grown-up. In Conan Gray’s Kid Krow, I relive the times in isolation where my only comfort was to scream. In Lucy Dacus’s Home Video, I hear my junior year self trying to find people who love him simply. In Maggie Rogers’ Surrender, I rediscover the kid in his senior year of high school making the decision to leave behind his loving community in Michigan so he can discover the person he wants to be. But I don’t only find past versions of myself in these albums; I also reconnect with the people and places that made me into those versions of myself. 

While it may seem futile to spend twenty dollars to own an album I can listen to for free, I only hope you can understand why I do. I feel a certain hope in my record collection that I can remember the things that make life beautiful when it all falls down. This may not be a bulletproof system, but it’s the only way that feels right for me. 

My grandfather taught me best that what you do can live on in the memories of others even past your deadline. It’s because of his legacy that I recognize the importance of holding on to the stories of those close to me. I believe in their power more than anything. I can only hope that whatever stories I am able to tell can live on in the songs that we experience together like they live in mine. I hope that we can recollect all of the versions of ourselves that live in the albums of our childhood. 

If I could give any advice as a confused, anxiety-ridden 18-year-old, it would be this. Remember the moments before they’re taken away from you and take pleasure in doing so. You have a duty to fulfill. As a staple of my record collection, Lucy Dacus says on the closer of her album Historian, “I’ll be your historian / And you’ll be mine.”