I started writing this blog as a way to get to know, to actually study, myself. These are not easy for me to write. What makes it so hard is the fact that I have chosen to share my words with anyone who cares to read them. Not only does that feel very risky but it forces me to really study my feelings to be sure that I am being honest, or authentic, about what I am writing.
One thing I have learned is, that as the subject of my writing, I am perhaps the one least objective about what I write. When I look back I sometimes struggle to remember or understand events that were so significant in my life. Time and life has a way of filtering or distorting the past.
My mother-in-law, Lenore, is a wonderful woman. From the day I meet her she warmly welcomed me into the family and I have always appreciated her quick wit. Besides the love of her daughter, we also share a birth date. On January 13th I will be 60. Lenore will be 88. You are not supposed to love your mother-in-law but I love mine.
She recently moved into a memory care facility as she battles with the growing shroud of dementia. I can see the confusion and the sadness in her eyes when I speak with her as her short-term memory slowly slips away and is replaced by confusion. Her sense of humor still comes through as she talks about breaking out of the facility but it is clear to us, and to her, that this is a progressive condition. That the slow steady march of dementia will eventually completely rob her of her memories and her personality.
My brother Mike, born on Christmas day, is the only person who has known me for almost 60 years now. Likely, no one will ever know me longer than my brother. Today he faces similar challenges as Lenore. We don’t talk so I am not sure what he feels but I imagine he is scared. I wonder if he even knows. I hear he is angry. He is angry about liberal politicians and press, gun control, and me. As his memory slowly slips away I can’t help but wonder when the memory of me will completely slip away as well?
I love the podcast, Revisionist History by Malcolm Gladwell. This summer he did a fantastic episode entitled “Free Brian Williams” that completely challenged the way I thought about my understanding of my past. Using the backdrop of the events on 9/11, Gladwell talks about the accuracy of our memories. How they are shaped by the events around us and the distance of time. He makes a very compelling case that the memories we are so sure about today may not have actually happened the way we remember them. I see it with some of my friends when I talk about it with them. They vehemently defend that their memories of an event are rock solid; “I can remember so clearly…” I have no doubt their memories are crystal clear but are they accurate? Are they complete?
I think about the memories of my childhood, of my mother and father who passed away many years ago. There are the vague memories and then there are the ones that are just so clear and vivid. I can’t help but wonder how those have been shaped over the years by emotions, time, or changes in my own brain’s chemistry.
Like most, my family had its dysfunctions but for the most part, I grew up feeling safe and secure. I have been very fortunate in my life. I have had so many wonderful experiences. Growing up in a Navy family meant we had the opportunity to live in many different places. I went to five different schools before I graduated from high school. Over the years I have lived in 25 different cities and three different countries. I have had so many rich experiences as a result. The downside is it is difficult for me to answer the question “where are you from?” I know a lot of people, however, our relationship, in most cases, is in the context of a specific time or place in my life.
My wife, Marilyn has had a very different path. She has lived in only three or four different cities, and in the Boulder area alone for nearly a quarter of a century. When Lenore moved into the memory care facility just before Thanksgiving, she moved out of the house Marilyn’s childhood home. She has four siblings and a long list of friends who have known for many many years.
As she was going through the Christmas decorations today to put up the tree I overheard her saying to a friend that of all the ornaments only two were mine. After all those experiences how is it possible that I only had two ornaments? As I thought about that, it occurred to me that I actually have very little in my life from my past. I have very few material things, and there are very few who knew me as a young man, let alone a child. My parents are both gone. My brother and I don’t speak and as his memories slip away, that perspective will be gone as well.
I am left mostly to rely on my own memories of the past. Unsure of how they have been shaped over time?
So while I started writing this blog to study myself, I think I share it as a way of, somehow, keeping my memories alive; keeping me alive. A way to help Jonathan and Jennifer get to know their father a little better. So someday, when they are approaching their 60th birthday, and I am long gone, there will be more than a faded memory, distorted by time and brain chemistry, of who I was;
or, at least, thought I was.
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