Memory Chest

My brother reminded me of  a happy memory today. It was of the time we rented the movie The Goonies on VHS tape. I remember the day well. We were with my dad in the family owned video store on Elm Street. I even remember the proprietor, a kindly, brown haired woman, exalting the movie. Saying it was a must see. When Jimmy and I saw the movie case’s cover art, a gang of boisterous preteens with a pirate ship and skull and cross-bones in the background, we were immediately transported to a damp, drippy cave, our pockets filled with pieces of eight, running for our lives. A couple of swashbucklers, yo-hoing their way out of their family room, and onto the open seas. It was clearly a must- see for our adventurous spirits.
In no time, we were clad in our jammies, stuffing our faces with pizza, and ensconced in Spielberg’s world of pirates, treasure and of course, “bullet holes the size of matzo balls.”
This memory is one of the 18,000 happy ones that make up my childhood. I know if I could find a magic way to bottle how great I felt sitting in the family room of my beloved “West Street House,” next to my brother, I would drink a dose daily. It is these memories that make up my past. Many of them helped define the person I have become. And, if I could find a way to bottle them, I would probably give sips out as gifts. Maybe I would pass the bottle to my parents, the grand facilitators of that memory. Maybe I would pass it to Jimmy, as a way of reminding him of when being each other’s siblings was so much less complex, because it was so much less grown up. Or maybe I would pass it to Ella, so she could get a fun glimpse of what I did as a child, and see part of the blue print I have used for her upbringing.
This memory, along with the others (what did I say? 18,000?) make me ache with joy and my eyes burn with tears. They make me laugh out loud. They make me hug myself so tight, They make me sing and dance, I look back upon them with the same tenderness that I feel when I smooth Ella’s hair out of her eyes after she's fallen asleep. They are precious.
How did God, or whomever the divine power is, or simply our own wonderful brains, ever provide us with such a gift as a good memory? How did whatever IT is know that we’d need those snapshots, those landmarks as a way to punctuate our lives? a way to chronicle our pasts, and provide a guide to how we try to design our futures. A good memory has potency, power. It can get us through the roughest of times, pull us out of the darkest places. It is a gift I am most grateful for.
Naturally, in a situation like mine, this battle with the Walking C, facing mortality, I think often of the past, I think about which memories I would collect, put in little glass jars, and place inside a treasure chest. I wonder if I think more about the past than the future now? I’m not certain I suppose. I know that it is hard for me to think about the future when it is so uncertain. It makes me nervous, anxious and frankly, sometimes, sad. If my memories of the past are all soft, fluffy squares that make up a quilt I can wrap around myself and feel secure, then I suppose thoughts of the future make me feel naked, exposed. Like I am taking a great risk just hoping to achieve whatever it is I am hoping to achieve.
This part can really suck, because another huge lesson you learn when dealing with the Walking C is of course the “Oh shit, what haven’t I experienced that I need to before I check out?!!” The looking into the future for the opportunity to make more memories, more precious glass jars to fill the box. The irony of this is, it’s uncertain for everyone honestly, because there are no guarantees. But it seems much easier for those without a diagnosis to make a five year plan, that's for sure.
A big one for me is travel. I have yet to go to London and wander through the National Library in front of the great works of literature that I have come to know and love so well. In my mind, it goes like this. I am with my Ella and the rest of my family. I see myself kissing the grave of my Katherine of Aragon, my hot tears splashing onto the ground that holds her remains. I see myself standing, breathless, in front of the Tower that held Anne in her last days, hearing her murmur the Lord’s Prayer over and over. I see myself holding my daughter’s hand as we look as the gilded leaves of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, or Shakespeare’s first folio of anything.
These images are so beautiful to me they make me physically hurt. The desperation to make them happen, the idea that they may not, leave me with an overwhelming sense of fear. The problem with making plans when you feel like you have an expiration date that’s just looming before you is the obvious, which I outlined just now, and then the additional, “It will happen without me, It will occur after I’m gone.” And they will say, “Oh wouldn’t Monica have loved this? Don’t you think Monica would have wanted us to do it this way?”
And I love the “They.” I am touched that They would want to carry out something on my behalf. But that’s what I am supposed to say right? Because selfishly, I don't want any of it to happen without me. I want the opportunity to design this memory, to live in it. To collect the sights, sounds, smells and the feelings that I need to put inside the jar.
So, what am I talking about? I suppose one of the lessons that seems to prevalent to me while dealing with the Walking C is that it’s important to not be afraid to make those plans, to live in the here and now. I know that I am certainly not the first person to come to the realization that its vital to embrace what we have at present, to live day by day and be thankful for the time we have, but I am the first person to discover what that realization has meant to me.
I think it means, that I am going to continue making plans. Dare to dream of the heels of whatever fabulous boots I procure in London sinking into the muddy grass of Highland Cemetery. Dare to imagine the taste of Earl Grey tea and scones with clotted cream that I will enjoy at Claridges. Embrace the image of my daughter’s shining eyes and damp hair and she and I march down cobblestoned streets, pretending we are headed to the Leaky Cauldron. So, I will take the risk and keep planning.
There is lots of room left in the treasure chest, and many, many more glass bottles...