Time, heal these wounds

Some of you who know me will remember this story. In a way, it’s about my memory of my mom, who died in 1989. It was because of her that I called the doctor to schedule a colonoscopy when I turned 40 in 2002.

But in another way, it’s about the stories we tell and how they shape who we are. The fact that these stories are not always rooted in historical "truth" may not matter all that much. At the end of the day, stories and memories are the cards we hold on to; cold facts are what we discard. And for a very good reason: Stories trump truth.

Because of my mom, I had the colonoscopy as soon as I turned 40, which is what you do when your parent dies of colon cancer. But here’s the thing: she didn’t have colon cancer…

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If you are still reading, dear reader, I can only assume it’s because, like me, you like a mystery. You know you could just skip to the end. But you’re not that kind of person. You’re patient. If the story is good, you’ll wait. And you know it isn’t about the facts anyway. It’s about how the story unfolds.

In the interest of (somewhat) full disclosure, let me put some cards on the table. My mother passed away in 1989. That much is definitely true. I was there at the hospital the day she died. Still true. I knew she was dying of colon cancer. Not true at all.

But how could that be? How could I not know that? I was definitely there at the hospital that day. But where was I in the years that lead up to that moment?

My memory is sketchy.

What I do remember is what happened on the day after she died. I was at her house, sitting on a barstool in the backyard. There were lots of people around. The TV was on inside. And I was in the backyard, crying like a baby.

I wasn’t a baby, of course -- I was 26 at the time. But the tears pored out of me like water from a faucet. I think I went through a box of Kleenex every 15 minutes. It was pathetic, really.

And I think that somehow in the emotion of that whole period -- during my mom’s illness, during my denial of it -- the facts seemed to float away. Maybe trauma has that effect. Maybe during periods of intense pain you just forget things. Or you remember them differently. Your version of reality changes, re-forms. New realities take over. New identities are formed. You become what you remember.

Not the facts of your life but rather your memory of those facts is what defines your identity.

Let me give you an example. My mom’s dad grew up in the Depression. Few events in our nation’s history have been as traumatic for the people who lived through them. That experience left him with memories that are etched permanently on his mind.

According to a story he told me recently, his grandfather died in 1933, leaving $1,250 to his mother, my great-grandmother. She deposited the money on a Wednesday afternoon in April in a bank managed by John Dowling in Welston, Missouri. The next day, which was the second Thursday in April, the bank closed. In fact, all banks closed. Some didn’t open for two days. Some never reopened. This bank never did, and she never saw that money again. My grandfather was 18 at the time. He had 12 brothers and sisters. They were dirt poor, and he was the only one in the family with a job. They could have used that money. The bank closure may not have been Mr. Dowling’s fault, but my grandfather didn’t have many kind words to say about him.

This memory became for my grandfather a reference point, a map that has guided him through his long life. It’s because of moments like the bank run that he learned to work hard, fight through adversity, build a business with his own hands, and take care of people who depend on you. Who he is is tangled up in what he remembers.

Here’s where it gets interesting. The historical facts regarding bank closures and bank runs in the Great Depression don’t quite jive with my grandfather’s memory. Trust me. I looked it up.

But does it matter? One thing is certain: that experience left in his memory a deep scar, one whose contours he’s very familiar with. His memory has a certainty to it that, in the end, may bear only a passing resemblance to what we call "facts." Not unlike my memory of my mom.

When you lose someone close to you, like your mother, all you’re left with is your memory. But if you’re lucky, she’ll also appear to you in your dreams. I still see her there from time to time. Usually only for brief moments. We don’t usually talk. It’s more like we’re waving to each other as we pass -- as if our not-quite-parallel universes overlap for a moment, then separate again. But I’m okay with that, because I like seeing her.

The good news for her is she looks great. She hasn’t changed a bit in 20 years. You always say that to someone you haven’t seen in a long time, but in this case it’s absolutely true. She lives on in my memory exactly as she was back then. Or more to the point, exactly as I remember her.

She was young, only 48. Too young. And when she died, it was after a period of remission. She had first been identified with ovarian cancer a few years prior, had treatment, and was recovering.

When it reappeared it had spread to a lot more of her body. It took her colon, which strangely is what I remember. But she didn’t die of colon cancer. She never had colon cancer.

And that’s a fact that both of my brothers pointed out to me on the evening before I was scheduled to have my colonoscopy -- after I had spent a day drinking gallons of ginger ale mixed with what I think was paint thinner. I’ll spare you the gory details, but if you’re interested read Dave Barry’s experience.

Suffice it to say, it wasn’t pleasant. And I haven’t touched ginger ale since. Not a drop. Even the idea of ginger ale brings back memories I’d rather forget.

But it also brings back some I like to remember.

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Epilogue: August 12th will be 19 years, Mom. If you’re out there, drop by. You have an open invitation to visit my in my dreams anytime you want. I miss you.

Postscript: This story is dedicated to my friend Chris, who recently lost his mom. And to my friend Vivian, who lost her dad not long ago. What I’d like to tell them is not to worry. You’ll see them again.