i'm on a boat

 

Seven days. Three posts. 

One of my team members lost her father yesterday. He had just entered hospice, and a part of me wanted to reach out and say, I know. But I don't know, not really. I had a complicated relationship with my old man, and though he died on Christmas day, everyone's experience is different. So I said what we always say, We're thinking about you. He was an amazing guy. Whatever you need, we're here. I meant it, but there's really not a right thing to say. A few years back, the phrase May their memory be a blessing came into vogue. There was a debate about whether or not using it is an inappropriate appropriation. Ah, people.

Earlier this year, I sold his convertible, and was cautioned that getting rid of it would be a regret. It was, but not for the reasons I was warned. The person who bought it tried to give it back to me a few weeks later, and it became a minor ordeal for a couple of months. It's gone now. Off to a better place. And now there are not regrets.

Alex had her office holiday party, and because of my new job and other circumstances, I hadn't been to one in several years. I knew there would be alcohol, and I still struggle with mingling and not succumbing to Irish goodbyes, so I did the reasonable thing and accepted the first glass of wine shoved into my face. And old habits embraced me like a long lost frenemy. I hadn't had any alcohol in some time, and the next morning I woke in horror. 

Did I do something stupid? Did I say anything to embarrass you?

No, you were fine.

Good.

Do you remember anything?

No.

It was frightening, not being able to remember. I remember everything. That's my cursed power. Or blessed curse. Whichever. I remember burning my hand on an old shovel head my grandfather left in the fire pit. He died when I was 4. I remember every mistake I've ever made since. 

It has been two years since my legal name change. In that time, I only ever once mistakenly used my old last name, and now it feels like I have always been this person. 

Caravaggio - And I said you can forget everything, but you never forget your name.

I remember Christmas day, telling my mom to go to sleep and get some rest, that I would take care of him. I remember the hospice nurse telling me solemnly, you are doing the best thing for him, but when you start, don't stop the doses. He is not in any pain.

I remember a host of visitors, and going home to sleep, and waking up and snow, our first white Christmas in years. I remember giving a speech about all of the good times and none of what makes us who we are.

Last week, I received my confirmation for our biennial trip to Alaska. A couple of friends go fishing for week on alternating odd years to a tiny cove near Glacier Bay National Park to catch salmon and halibut. There is no internet and no phone service and for a week I have the time and space I need to forget and forget and forget.