Autopilot

One of the things that I'd learned in a social psychology class back in college is summed up in a simple statement: Robots Are Good. Our teacher explained that this means that most of what we do in our day-to-day lives is done on autopilot. Here's a couple examples of that. When was the last time you had to stop and think about exactly how you go about tying your shoes? If you're like me, I learned to do that as a kid and, ever since, it's just something that I do. I don't have to think about it. I don't even really have to pay attention to it. I take hold of the laces and then—magic happens—and my shoes are miraculously tied. Most of the time when I”m doing that, I'm thinking about something else entirely, like what else I need to clean up in the sink or which load of laundry needs to be done next or wondering what work will be like. No real thought or attention necessary.

Here's another one. How often during the day does someone ask something along the lines of “How's it going?” or “How're you doing?” When was the last time you had to stop and think about the answer? With a lot of people, it happens when one or both are walking by. There's not a lot of time to give much of an answer, and some we don't really want to tell what's really up. So there's an autopilot response along the lines of “Doing all right” or “Fine, you?” Depending on who's asking, the answer may be more or less formal. But most of the time there's not much thought that goes on with that. Heck, when thought does come up with that, it's usually when someone we like and trust has asked, and there's stuff on our minds that we've wanted to talk about. That's not usually the case, though, so the autopilot gets us through.

I'd run across another idea from a psychologist I talked to. He said he'd read up on some research that says that the brain keeps changing throughout our lifetimes. The nerve cells make new connections as we learn new information or habits. They also break connections for things that aren't true or aren't parts of our lives anymore. During a fairly normal life, those changes are small enough that they don't really mess with the rest of how the brain works, so we don't even notice them happening. At most, it might be if we're having to learn a new computer program or process, spend a lot of time on it, and then feel a bit scattered afterward. That usually doesn't last long, and either getting some rest or doing something familiar will help smooth that out again.

However, when there's a really big, traumatic change, the brain's got to do a lot more work to adapt. In the case of losing a spouse or a child who's still at home, that's a major change. They're the people who we use to help define who we are and what our lives are about. I can't help it's something similar to someone suddenly being blinded in an accident or losing a limb or being paralyzed. If you've never done so, stop and think about one of those people around you now, the ones who're there pretty much every day and affect a major percentage of your life, especially what's important in your life. Maybe they're not huge everywhere, but they affect almost everything. Your kid might have nothing to do with your job or where you work, but I'd bet there are a fair number of days when you've got to think about what time you need to be out of the office to pick them up or get something for them or be home for a birthday party. If it's your spouse, odds are you have the same thoughts about an anniversary or a date night or figuring out who'll cook dinner or even just remembering what you were asked to buy at the grocery store. The effect on our lives is pervasive and it's a great deal larger, deeper and more profound than we tend to realize.

When they're suddenly gone, all of those neural connections associated with them need to get rearranged. Remembering what my wife's favorite foods were is no longer useful if I'm stopping at the grocery store. Thinking about what time I need to leave work to maybe she and I can spend time together suddenly serves no purpose. Being aware of what her work and sleep schedules are so I know when to be quiet at home isn't a useful function anymore. If anything, all those serve to do after her death is remind me she's gone. And so the brain has to rewire all those connections.

When it's a massive rewiring that needs to happen, one of the things that goes on at the same time is that the autopilot doesn't work so well. See, the autopilot is using a lot of the background resources we don't usually realize are getting used. It's similar to how your computer is able to keep the clock accurate (or at least in theory does so) that you check in the corner of the screen. On the other hand, if your computer's having to do a bunch of other stuff at the same time, say running a major virus scan and defrag your hard drive AND update your operating system, all of a sudden those automatic functions don't work so smoothly or well. Things freeze or skip or jump. With a computer, it's always only doing one thing at a time, so it can put things on hold until it's got time to get back to them.

Our brains don't work like that, though. Our brains run lots of processes simultaneously, and the parts running one process are often interconnected with parts running at least one other, often more. So if one thing is getting scrambled, it makes another part shudder or jump, too. When it's all working well, there's enough redundancy that it's covered and we don't even notice. On the other hand, if the brain's having to do massive rewiring of connections, then all of a sudden that autopilot doesn't work so well anymore. We find ourselves walking into a room and not remembering what it was we went in to get. One day, I got to my office and realized I'd forgotten to put on a belt (which doesn't exactly look good in an office setting). I'm sure my cat didn't mind the one morning I was so scattered I fed him three times. On bad days, I know that my wife and I had a long time together and there are a lot of memories as a result...but I can't get most of them to come up at all.

I don't know of any way to help hurry or smooth the process along. I wish I did. It just helps sometimes to know that I'm not really losing my mind. In a very real sense, my brain is knitting itself back together, bit by bit.

I just wish it didn't take so long, or hurt so much. But that's better than the alternative...to never heal at all.