The Two Kinds of Decay

Memory

I argued with my father. He denied he’d read a book I lent him. In 1995 watched him read it.

Later he wrote:

There are whole spans of time in the 1990s I don’t remember.

That’s the only thing in my life that’s like that.

His tennis club later told him that in 1995 they watched him age a decade.

My mother wrote:

I don’t remember the hospital sessions, but I remember the morning of the ambulance ride when you couldn’t walk and I had to move you around on the desk chair. Never could explain to Nana about your disease. At the time she had the beginnings of Alzheimer’s and would ask daily how you were, then have me explain. Every day, the same.

Very isolated. Friends and family stayed away, perhaps in fear of catching the disease. Resented this but could understand.

When you were in the hospital I felt as if I had a little vacation because someone else was taking care of you.

Was always optimistic about your recovery. Guess that’s my personality. Never was resentful but felt sad for you and often wondered why this had to happen.

Only had one friend who seemed genuinely interested, who I could talk with and who would visit both of us.

Now I remember the navy blue jacket my mother wore almost every day she visited me in the hospital.

I remember how angry I felt when my parents visited me at seven in the evening, when visiting hours were almost over, and when My So-Called Life was on television, so instead of having two things to do in a day, I had to choose one or the other.

I remember a long time later, seeing Claire Danes in a boutique on the Lower East Side and going in and telling her how much I’d liked watching My So-Called Life.

I remember that after an IV catheter in my arm got pulled out, I got infusions in my hand instead of my arm so I could keep a better eye on the tubes.

I remember meeting with my Latin professor and knowing he thought I was dying and not correcting him, and letting him tell me everything that would be on the exam.

I remember him conjugating a verb and saying masculine and single instead of masculine and singular, and how he blushed.

I remember my college boyfriend reading Le Monde in the Adams House dining hall and carrying Kierkegaard books in his pockets, and how they stuck out just enough that you could see it was Kierkegaard.

I remember learning the combination to the lock on the Fellows’ liquor cabinet at the Signet, and feeling as good as I ever had, telling someone else the combination.