Battling a lifelong affliction

Dear Friends,

After many years of personal suffering – and perhaps causing a measure of unintended grief or mental anguish for others, I have come to the medical conclusion that I have long been afflicted with anomic aphasia.

Or, at the very least, I have anomia – and I have had it for most of my life.

Granted, this was a self-diagnosis with assistance from some online doc-in-a-box – and absolutely no assistance from that local medical scholar, quintessential gentleman and all-around good guy Dr. Jeff Beery. But I'm reasonably certain that Dr. Beery and Dr. Obama can confirm my diagnosis.

For those unfamiliar with anomia (as I was for the past half-century), it is an affliction similar to that of dysnomia in which those sufferers struggle to identify individuals that they may have known for years or even for a few days.

With anomic aphasia, one may have word-finding difficulties, especially when related to first and last names. This is called anomia.

It pains me to inform you that I have anomia – which is not to be confused with ammonia.

It pains me to inform you, George (or Henry); and you, Ted (or Ralph); and you, Tom (or Tim); and you Pat, (or Pat); and you Dr. Livingston (or Nurse Goodbody).

It pains me to inform all of you that there may have been past occasions in which I – due to my medical disorder – may have called you by an incorrect given name (or surname) or courtesy title.

Once again, I am called upon to share one of the many stories of my many indiscretions. This one hurts. It really does.

For some background, I have had this disorder as far back as I can remember.

In 1980, while attending the University of Cincinnati, I also worked in a factory, Johnson and Hardin Printing, off Red Bank Road on the city's east side. One day after work, I asked one of my co-workers, "Who was that fella passing around the NFL football tickets today?" (By "tickets," I mean betting slips.)

"That was Joe," my friend said.

"Joe who?" I asked.

"Joe the pressman," my friend answered.

"No … kidding?"

As it turned out, Joe was a press operator by day and a bookmaker by late afternoon. He wore his work clothes in and changed into street clothes on the way out. I recognized Joe in the morning, but not in the evening.

I was 19 years old.

A few months later, I was working in another printing facility. This one was closer to home. RFP, Inc., if you will.

I once confused brothers Rick and Ralph Slack, Jr., after working with both of them for a decade. When former Michigan University football player John Brown and I worked together, he made the mistake of introducing me to his brother, Jim. I couldn't tell one from the other.

When the old Convenient Store was located on North High Street across from UDF, after a Friday night high school football game, I asked Bill Turner how his son was doing after the injury.

That was in 1990.

Bill Turner did not have a son with a football injury. Mike Moses did. His son, Joe, was on crutches at that time. I saw Bill and I thought of Mike. Had I the opportunity to see these two friends standing in front of me, I would have known one from the other. On that particular autumn night in 1990, I did not have that luxury.

To this day, I still think that Bill Turner and Mike Moses share some resemblance – at least in my limited eyesight. I apologize to both of these fine gentlemen for my affliction.

I'm no better with women. Just this week, I mentioned to the person who really runs this newspaper that my friend Jean Wallis was at the front door.

Except that it was not Jean Wallis. Frankly, I have no idea who it was!

A few years ago, after another one of those insanely idiotic corporate newspaper meetings – during which all attendees sit around the room and admire the latest problems – I stopped at one of those chicken wing sports bars for a beer and a few hot wings.

As I was leaving, a very pleasant young lady spoke my name. Since I knew no one at this establishment and very few people in this area, I just kept walking toward the door.

But I didn't make it.

The next words I heard were "RORY RYAN DON'T YOU IGNORE ME!"

I turned back toward the young lady with an obvious look of unresponsiveness. My expressionless face prompted the question most feared by those of us with ammonia. I mean anomia.

"YOU DON'T KNOW MY NAME, DO YOU?" she demanded.

It was at that point that I did what I always do in such situations. I guessed. And, as always, I guessed wrong. After a few tries, she let me know that she was Elizabeth, a young writer I had hired in the 1990s.

"I was going to say 'Elizabeth' next," I offered.

No good. The damage was done.

Had that occurred today, I could have said with all sincerity: "I'm sorry. I have been self-diagnosed with anomia. I cannot remember names."

According to former New York Yankees pitcher and Cincinnati Reds broadcaster Waite Hoyt, Babe Ruth also suffered from anomia. How do I know? Because I grew up listening to Volumes 1 and 2, two LP (long-playing) 33 1/3 albums, entitled "Waite Hoyt in the Rain." These were collections of baseball stories that Waite would share over the radio during rain delays in the Reds' games.

One particular story that Waite shared was about the Babe's inability to remember names. "He'd call you 'Happy,' 'Jack,' or 'Pete.' It didn't matter."

• Fact 1: Babe Ruth was born in Baltimore, Md.

• Fact 2: So was I.

I think our anomia affliction may be linked to the waters of the Chesapeake Bay. Or maybe it was the crabs. Baltimore is famous for its crabs, you know. It also could be related to ingesting copious amounts of Old Bay Seasoning. Or National Bohemian.

When caught in unfamiliar territory where someone speaks to me and I am struggling with his or her identity, my family and those few brave souls who have befriended me always remind me to practice saying things like:

• "Hey, it's great to see you!" or,

• "Hi, there! How have you been?" or,

• "How about this weather? Sure is cold for November." or,

• "I'd love to stand around and talk, but I just ate a couple of hot dogs at the food court and I've got to find the men's room, A-SAP."

Had I employed the fourth reply a few weeks ago at Eastgate Mall, I wouldn't have called someone I've known for 20 years by the name of someone else I've known for more than 30 years.

Instead, I called "Brian" by the name "Darrell." In my defense (in addition to my anomia affliction), with lifelong nearsightedness, I often rely on voice recognitions over sight recognitions. And Brian and Darrell really do sound alike.

Then there was this classic at a family gathering at the Outer Banks a few years ago. Our family and my uncles' families (my mother's two brothers) had rented beach houses along the coast. After a few days of cookouts, swimming, fishing and some consumption, I finally asked my wife who this one particular young man was. He was always hanging around, laughing, having fun. Talking with everyone like he belonged.

"That's your first cousin," my wife informed me. "He once spent a week with us."

Oh, yeah.

Had I known then what I know now, I could have blamed it on the anomia.

The closing diagnosis is this: Sadly, I also suffer from foot-in-mouth disease.

Rory Ryan is publisher of The Highland County Press.