High school was filled with crushingly embarrassing moments that I was sure I would never live down, let alone forget every painful detail. Like the time that guy heard me telling my girlfriend I had a crush on him and then put his arm around me in front of everyone and said something mean. I was sure I would never forget how utterly mortified I was. I was sure I would never live down the shame. And yet, here I am twenty-five years later and I can’t remember the name of my friend who witnessed the trauma. And I can’t remember what it was my crush said to me. And I bet he doesn’t even remember my name let alone that one moment I was sure I would never live down.
Life is like that; full of moments that are so big, so important that life as we’d known it must change. But these important moments become memories that fade with time and fracture in the retelling. I can’t begin to imagine how many times Mom told me then that something wouldn’t seem as important as I grew older. That the multitude of embarrassing episodes I’d suffered, moments I was sure I would never live down, would fade over time. That the boy I “loved” with all my heart, the boy who crushed me with his words would just become “that boy” and the mean words that broke me, words I thought I’d never forget, would just be remembered as “he said something mean.” Despite loathing to admit my mother was right, things do fade with time. In high school I did my best to pretend that I was indifferent to the cool kids and their cool parties. That I didn’t care I wasn’t invited to sit on the benches in the middle and that the sides with my back against the wall was a choice. That those little hurts weren’t crushing me and marking my soul forever. Every moment, every hurt, and every party I didn’t attend or fun time I was sure I was missing was important. And yet, twenty-five years later, I can’t remember the specifics of any one story. I’m not saying I wasn’t marked, wasn’t scared, just that in the scope of my life now, high school and those little hurts just aren’t as important now as I thought they would be back then. There was a reunion this past weekend and I chose not to go. With the remodel it was hard to justify the cost but mostly I just didn’t have that need to fit in that fueled me in high school, to fit in and be one of the pretty crowd. I have enjoyed looking at the pictures online of folks that I used to know and now only socialize with on Facebook. I had a great time trying to remember people’s names but rarely did a story come with the face. All those moments I thought I would never get over, never get past, had disappeared with the passing of life. Ten years ago my mother had a bone marrow transplant. Her tenth birthday – for that’s what they call it when you get a transplant, a birthday - was, ironically, the same day as the reunion. Ten years ago, I can remember being in the room, watching them side the bag of marrow onto the IV pole. I can remember that Mom was in pain. I can remember that the room smelled of hard grain alcohol because of one of the major drugs they’d used to nuke her body. And I can remember that I was terrified and sad and sure that this was going to be it, that I was never going to be able to “Mom!” her again. But the weight of that day, the actual smells, the visceral emotions I was feeling have become nothing more than part of story I’m retelling. So much so that, for the second year in a row, Brother, Mom and I all forgot her bone marrow birthday. Don’t get me wrong. The whole experience was - and still is - massively important. My mother was dying and, ten years later she is still here. It matters. It just doesn’t bring me to blubbering tears the way it did then. It doesn’t make me shake with fear they way it did then. It has become a mark on my soul, much like the faded tan lines that mark my skin, but that fresh burn of the sun has eased and I am no longer wincing from the pain. It has faded with time - just like Mom said it would. If I had a dollar for every time Mom said something wouldn’t matter in the long run, I’d be rich. If I had a dollar for all the times I spent fretting and fussing over stupid little hurts and slights and embarrassments I thought mattered, I’d be Bill Gates rich. And probably not as grey and wrinkled and stressed. I’d like to say lesson learned but I know me. Something is sure to happen today that is utterly embarrassing and that “I will never get over”… until tomorrow. Life is like that, full of memories that fade with time and fracture in the retelling. Thank goodness for that!
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AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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