August 25, 2007
They bustle about the tiny room, moving the wires and tubes that now constitute her major biological functions and I feel my body dissolve into static.
There’s information, hushed tones, more information, paperwork, a surprisingly casual atmosphere.
I kiss her little forehead and give an empty assurance that she’ll be ok. She doesn’t turn toward my voice.
The driver stands-up slowly, stretches and yawns. I can't decide if I'm reassured or terrified.
Now they’re gone and I re-enter my body—jerked back to reality by a hand on my shoulder.
“Two years from now, when she’s running around just like any other toddler, you won’t even remember this,” the nurse says and smiles. I stare at her and try unsuccessfully to transport myself to this magical future.
August 25, 2009
I know that I went to work today. I know that I attended one scheduled meeting, two impromptu meetings, and one farewell lunch. I know that I sent out memos, scheduled future meetings, dialed the phone and answered the questions. I know only because my inbox and my calendar tell me so. I can't really remember any of it.
Most things don't even make a dent anymore.
Tomorrow I won't remember what we discussed in the meetings or how I answered the questions or what I agreed to do next. I might remember what I ate at lunch but I probably won't remember what I said.
I'll remember dancing around the living room to showtunes with C.
I'll remember exactly how the sunlight made R's eyelashes sparkle.
I'll remember reading this and thinking, “Maybe that's my problem.”