Memory harvest

Hello, and welcome to the memory harvest. 

Every bad thing we witness has an effect on us. Mostly, it makes us feel insignificant and out of control. These things happen to people no more or less deserving than us, and nothing can be done to stop our collective, inevitable march toward the end. There but for chance and fortune go I, we say when tragedy strikes somewhere else. I used to say there but for the grace of God, but lately, maybe because we have been on the receiving end of some crap and have put more thought into the "why" than it takes to repeat a cliché, I no longer say things like that, or things like "we are blessed". Not because we aren't, but because of the unfinished edges of the implications such a statement makes toward those less fortunate, less blessed, more touched by tragedy. When one states that a blessing has been given, one leaves a glaring negative space in the implication that blessings have been withheld from others whose stories took more tragic turns than ones own. I must say, I'm still struggling with the question of why things happen. Oh, I know the canned answers. The world is imperfect. Imperfection and consequences of mistakes cause bad things to happen. But they leave something missing, yet, for me. The world would be such a neat and tidy place, all speculation of cause and effect could be fair game, if it weren't for the suffering of small, innocent children. 

Yes, I'm going somewhere with that. I'm searching for a good segueway into talking about the feelings of impotence, of smallness, of the loss of control over the things that befall us, and the mounting urge to do something, anything, to take the reins of ones own life and make that one life mean something. 

Time keeps approaching, brushing past, then retreating into nothing more than memories of past experiences. It is enough to make one we realize only one thing can be controlled, and that one thing is the beauty and quality of the memories one has stored.

We are in full blown memory harvest. We are hoarding memories, frantic lest we lose one. We weren't like this before we realized pediatric cancer could rip our future memories away, before we had the chance to make them. But now, with two little humans growing up all around us, we realize so keenly the importance of remembering that we don't get a do-over for even a single wasted moment. My phone has so many pictures on it, and these aren't posed or edited or polished pictures, they are candid snapshots that, when viewed in the future, I hope will provide a route to access the memory of the moment it was taken. I fear losing my memories more than losing my ability to control my body, more than death. Now we say things like, "I'm going to be so sad when I no longer have my little boys", and we aren't being morbid, we are simply acknowledging that they will leave us some day. Whether budding adulthood or tragedy takes them, they will be gone. 

So we create, then harvest the memories and emotions each day brings, and try to savor each moment, and we just can't. It is too much. They come too fast, they bring too many emotions, and it is just too overwhelming, and too much pressure, and so much simply gets lost. 

It is summer in the mountains. Sunlight is too intense. Breeze feels too gently cool. Grass is too green, mountaintops too white, rivers too musically rushing, lakes too deeply blue-green to be properly processed. It's too beautiful. It hurts to be surrounded by it. And then, the sweet intensity of two innocent, beautiful towheaded boys tugging on me, asking endless streams of questions, begging for me, for my approval, my knowlege, my authority, my love. Their eyes are too blue, their lashes too long and dark, their dirty bare feet and suntanned toes too busy. It's too much. I want to experience it all properly because it is all so fleeting, and I just can't. 

So I do what I can. Almost every day I ignore growing piles of laundry and an increasingly messy house, pack a lunch, hook the bike trailer to my trusty, prized blue classic steel road bike, and we ride over the twisty, hilly bikepath, flying through deep pine shadows, past wildflower covered hillsides, along the roaring Snake River, swollen with snowmelt, to our favorite places. One day it might be a calm, shallow portion of a tributary to the Snake, up a steep gravel road. We might be found splashing, jars of fruit smoothies submerged in the icy water for when we get hungry. We might spend hours constructing bridges, dams and roads for the toy cars we brought along, and when the shadows grow long, three exhausted humans, one big and two little, will make our way back home to see daddy and tell him all about our day. Another day it might be Keystone Lake, with pockets full of carefully hoarded quarters to put in the fish food dispenser in exchange for a handful of pellets, which we toss into the water and jump in delight at the feeding frenzy in which the trout engage. We might hang on the jungle gym, dig in the sand, send toy trucks rocketing down the slipper slide. Another day we might ride around the lake to the campgrounds and day use areas located on the other side and spend long, sundrenched afternoons throwing sticks into the water, trying to skip rocks, exploring trails, collecting pinecones. And yet another day, we might use a key to gain entry to a pool in a condo building and pretend we are on vacation, swimming, splashing and shrieking, eating lunch at a real table with an umbrella. 

You would think I would lose a few pounds with all the biking. This has been an easy week, lots of trips to Keystone, and I've still pedaled more than 110 miles this week, most of them with 80-100 lbs of kid and trailer behind me. But no. I feel myself hardening, toughening, but weight loss has not been my priority and it hasn't been a result, and for the first time in my life, I am calm about this. This sort of effort requires fuel. Im not going to deny myself those wonderful picnics. I am a nearly 34 year old mother of two little boys. My priority is not to take up less space. It is to experience all the things. 

As steady as the heartbeat in my chest is the thudding dread that drives our manic search for joy and beauty and the best, most unspoiled memories. We don't know if this is even more temporary than we assume. With each blood test, with each lumbar puncture, abnormal blood cells could be spotted, and overnight, it would all end. We would be inpatient immediately. More chemo. Harsher chemo. Another nightmare month of high dose steroids, followed by hard decisions like trying to get into trials for CAR-T or go the more conventional route of bone marrow transplant, or maybe there would be no decisions, simply being told this is the only treatment option available to us. We could be in a honeymoon right now. Or it could be permanent. We don't know. But it's enough to make two parents cling fiercely to every perfect moment, just in the rare event it could be the last one.

Each night, after a glorious day, Daniel snuggles into the covers between us, and we make no effort to remove him. We plant kisses on each of his cheeks, and we ask him if he knows how much we love him. He says he does, of course. He stretches his arms out and says, "This much!" We then repeat how much: "To the moon and back. Deeper than the ocean. Higher than the clouds. More than all the stars, and wider than the whole, wide world." He sighs and falls asleep, and we watch him sleep and talk about how smart and handsome he is becoming. Not to discount little brother, who is usually snoring by this point half in his bed, pushed up against ours, half in mine, arms flung out and little fist grasping whatever part of me he still has a hold of after we have snuggled to sleep. He is usually muttering in his sleep, because not even slumber can shut him up, bless his expressive little heart. 

Through all the happy, Bobby is working. Sometimes he gets days off that he didn't realize were going to be days off; the phone never rings. Sometimes he takes days off that turn into twelve hour work days. Sometimes he dares to go on a bike ride only to have me come pick him up on the bike path somewhere because something fell apart at work and he is needed immediately. It is frustrating, but still, he has to admit, well suited to his personality. He doesn't enjoy life doing the same thing day in and day out. Better for him if every day has a new and unique emergency. 

Life is good, it is summer both at the moment in Summit County and in this time in our lives, the memories are ripe, and we are doing all we can to preserve them.