I don’t know my fiancé’s phone number. Or my sister’s. Or anyone in the London Comedy Improv. I used to be fine with that, because it’s all in my phone. I know my Mum’s landline, but not her mobile and for everything else, I bow to technology. But recently, it’s been scaring me; things are definitely harder to remember. The brain, they say, is like a muscle: use it, or lose it. I don’t want to lose it. I don’t ever want to find out that I have Alzheimer’s.

Alzheimer’s disease isn’t funny, right? It’s no joke. Very, very serious. So serious, in fact, that it’s almost never discussed. When it does rear its ugly, unwelcome head in conversation, it’s shown the door as quickly and unceremoniously as possible. “It’s terrible”, someone might say, before changing the subject by juggling kitchen utensils or setting themselves on fire. The odd, rare person might attempt levity: “I can’t remember what we were talking about. Ha ha!” Everyone joins in, but not without squirming a little. It’s not right to laugh at it. It’s just not funny. What a shame.

I ran the New York marathon in November in aid of the Alzheimer’s Society. I ran for the UK Society, because I live in London, and most of the people I’d be haranguing for their amazingly generous donations would be paying in sterling. But some of my efforts got passed along to the Irish Soc, too. I was glad about that, because my Dad is a sufferer, and he’s in Ireland. He won’t be at my wedding in March and there was a big debate about whether or not to tell him I was getting married at all. In the end, Mum decided to tell him. He hasn’t mentioned it since.

Instead, he busies himself getting ready for golf and then getting straight back into bed. He’s constantly packing “for America” (where he’s never been). He regularly speaks to people who’ve been dead for decades, then gets upset when something triggers the memory that they’re gone. Once, he didn’t know who Tara was. (Mind you, he’s not alone there.)

The thing carers know is that – despite the heartbreak of losing someone, while still having them physically near – many aspects of the disease can cause laughter. It’s what gets people through. It’s such a grim subject, the giggles somehow find their way out. One elderly relative forgot all language but swear-words. Dad has recently been divulging lots of info about “safe houses”: real or imagined, I’m sure we’ll never know, but if it turns out to be of historical significance, rest assured I’ll pass the info on to you. Either way, it’s kind of funny. It has to be. The humour-free version is too shattering.

The carers for dementia sufferers have the patience of saints. Except they don’t. They have the patience of regular humans who often run out of patience. They need info and support and a laugh like you wouldn’t believe. I can’t really talk – I’ve never done it 24/7. My Mum has though. She is. That’s what she’s doing right now, in fact; either she’s tending directly to Dad or she’s doing something in another room, one ear constantly cocked for a door opening or car keys (the ultimate forbidden fruit) being searched for. He’s barely mobile: doors and cars are bad news. To be honest, in all of this, my immediate concern is rarely for Dad.

When I was fundraising for the marathon, many, many people cracked and told me of their family members who suffered from dementia, or cared for those sufferers. Of these crackees, I knew some quite well: they had never spoken about the disease before. Even in my own case, I’ve always brushed it off, glanced off it lightly, because the truth is it reflects on me. It’s the brutal genetic possibility of that happening to me which makes dementia such a taboo subject.

The Alzheimer’s Society firmly believes dementia is not a natural part of ageing, but a disease which – like cancer – can ultimately be conquered. Forgive me if I throw my potentially susceptile genes in with them. I want to be on their side of the playground. I want to help them to do as much research as possible, so that ultimately even I don’t forget who Tara is.

Besides, if they weren’t doing the kind of relentless research that they do, we’d never had had the story this week that mobile phone use may limit and possibly even reverse the effects of dementia. (Yes, yes, we’ll deal with the tumours another time: we’re talking dementia for now.) The tests were performed in Florida, on mice. What I want to know is where they found mice with mobiles in the first place? Also. do they lie to end awkward conversations? “I’m sorry, I’m going to lose you soon: I’m about to go into a hole.”

Anyway, after months of chatting to Mickey and Minnie (I assume, who else do mice call?), young mice – genetically predisposed to dementia –  didn’t develop it, while older mice saw their memory impairment diminish (“So that’s where I left that cheese…”). Electro-magnetics, or something. The BBC reporting of the development is here. The Alzheimer’s Soc’s own version is here.

The Alzheimer’s Society logo is a happy, blue elephant: elephants never forget, you see. They are also, traditionally, supposed to be afraid of mice and so they should be: those little feckers have mobiles and are smart enough to live rent-free in Florida. Despite genetic predisposition to Alzheimer’s, they can perform “complex memory tasks”: I can only assume that entails knowing people’s numbers by heart. I haven’t been able to do that since speed-dial were a lad.

The marathon’s over, but I’m going to do what I can to raise awareness and, y’know, help this year. Now you know why. Forgive me if I keep pestering you, it’s just that I really don’t want you to forget.

UK Alzheimer’s Society

Alzheimer’s Society of Ireland

www.justgiving.com/taraflynn

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