31 Days, 31 Memories - Day 27

[bironic]

Does anyone remember this exchange from Brave New World, where everyone is medicated to want little and get everything they do want immediately? --

"Has any of you been compelled to live through a long time-interval between the consciousness of a desire and its fufilment?"
"Well," began one of the boys, and hesitated.
"Speak up," said the D.H.C. "Don't keep his fordship waiting."
"I once had to wait nearly four weeks before a girl I wanted would let me have her."

Because that was running through my head all day as I planned to run by Blockbuster and pick up "Immortal," which I feel like I've wanted to see for a long time when really it's just been 36 hours. Utter lack of ability to delay gratification. synn and I watched it tonight along with "Enemy Mine." Both great. Thomas K. remains German sex symbol. Beautiful Man/God/Blue Mutant slashiness was enjoyed. Details when it isn't bedtime.

For now, today's memory. I went to a funeral this afternoon, so in that vein:

27. Middle School

My mother's best friend's husband, A., had diabetes, a disease I came to know through his whispered-about poor health and rare appearances in the house, his mysterious machine called Dialysis (I always imagined it to look like a piece of exercise equipment), Stacey in the Baby-sitters Club books, and a Discovery Channel special where a diabetic lost his foot to gangrene. When I was in middle school A. had surgery, I don't remember for what exactly but it was some complication of the condition. I'd gone to bed before word came back. Early in the night I heard my parents on the phone, walking around, coming up the stairs. My mother paused in my doorway and I asked what was happening.

"A. died," she said in a voice holding back such an awful mix of emotions that the words came out emotionless. A moment, and then she was walking again. I lay there trying to absorb the information and go to sleep.

The next day she apologized for relaying the news so brusquely, but I have this snapshot-memory of her standing there in silhouette against the hallway light with that flat voice.

Comments

[catilinarian.livejournal.com]

I was coming back on the train from D.C., where I'd been staying with a friend for a glorious, lazy summer weekend. I expected my mother to meet me on the station platform, as she always did, with the late sun on her red-highlighted hair and that incredible smile, even when I'd only been gone a few days. She'd been having pains in her side, lately, and she was worried it might be her gall bladder, which would mean a stay in the hospital and all sorts of inconvenience, so my mind immediately leapt to that conclusion when I saw my brother on the platform. Even so, I had a suddenly cold, numb feeling as I watched him, a lean, dark, sombre shape stalking towards me.

"Did Mom have to go into the hospital for her gall bladder?" I asked brightly as he came up.

Tom nodded, then blinked those great dark eyes at me. "They... don't think it's that."

Long after she died, I can still remember him walking towards me across the platform, that long moment when I knew something was wrong without wanting to know.

[bironic.livejournal.com]

*shivers* Not to romanticize the most awful thing that's happened to you, but he sounds like an omen gliding towards you, distinctly creepy. Did you really have that chill of foreboding before you heard the news? Eesh.

[catilinarian.livejournal.com]

Well, it wasn't entirely supernatural - there's always a moment of fear when the person who was supposed to meet you isn't there, and someone else's come to explain why - but yes, there was a definite chill, more than the explanation I was expecting warranted.

I got the shivers from your snapshot-memory of your mother in the hall, as well. There was something almost otherworldly about the way you described the flat voice and the shadows.

[bironic.livejournal.com]

That's another thing I'm enjoying about this project: finding out how much emotion lies behind a simple memory, finding out that something you found straightforward to write has moved someone in some way, to smile or shiver. It would have been an excellent exercise to have had in a creative writing class, teaching us how you can elicit an emotional response by telling only events. Our freshman-year teacher spent a lot of time teaching us about avoiding sentimentality, and writing a memory forces us to stick to the truth rather than embellishing a story we don't think has enough punch.