I’ve had this impulse over the last few days to document. To tell a coherent story. To organize the mosaic of memory into a straight line. A definitive record of events.
But I’ve already forgotten. Like childbirth. And the 80s.
And the stuff I do remember, well, it’s sort of maudlin now. My husband slowly going under, gasping for breath, while his blood-oxygen plummets. Or following him into the ER behind a heavy door where Lucy is not permitted and, for the first of a thousands times, having to choose between my sick husband and my stunned daughter. Or, not so maudlin, the untold kindnesses that made it all bearable.
Tomorrow, Ian comes home to a clean house and a new/old life. If we do it right, this will have changed us. I don’t know how but I do know that we have the chance to find something strong and true. Even in the suckiest stuff. Even in this.
Because Lucy goes to a fantastic and accommodating school, Ian will be able to watch his daughter graduate from 2nd grade on Friday. And eventually, we’ll make our way back to New York for the summer. We will eat meals with friends and make plans with family. We will have stupid fights that end when Ian says something random about Richard Nixon’s teeth and I laugh until I get the hiccups. He will school me in Scrabble while I beat him in Boggle. And maybe we’ll get to live to a ripe old age until a double-decker bus crashes into us.
Well the pleasure, the privilege is mine.