In Memory, Out Memory

We named The Boy Enrico in memory of my father—Camillo Enrico.  That was his fancy, exotic Italian name. Family lore has it that his sisters changed Enrico to Henry when he was young in an effort to reduce the teasing that the name Camillo had inspired.  I’m not sure how that worked; if I were a jackass little kid who teased a kid named Camillo, and one day Camillo comes in and says, ‘Oh yeah? Well, my name’s Henry now’, I sure as hell wouldn’t stop teasing him.   Maybe kids were stupider then.  In any case, I grew up knowing my father as Henry, but I didn’t want to give The Boy that name.  To be honest, the idea creeped me out a bit. It conjured in my mind a reincarnated version of my father, which would make everything from snuggling, to discipline, to diaper changes, to circumcision more complicated.  Naming The Boy Enrico was the perfect compromise — a way to remember my father that provided me with just enough psycho-emotional distance. Besides, I wasn’t gonna name him Camillo just in case those jackass kids had kids who had kids who would be on the playground smacking their gum and waiting for a kid with a funny name to show up.

It hasn’t been that long since my father passed away: February of 2009 — a year and a half that feels like something other than a year and a half.  Saying goodbye to him has been a gradual process with hot and cold moments along the way.  He had Alzheimer’s so I’d been learning to say goodbye to him in little ways for years. There were plenty of rough times in the final stages, but as often happens in families, our mother saw and dealt with the worst of it.  My family was spared one cruel detail of the disease though—my father never forgot who we were.  Right up until the end. I’m thankful I never had to look into his eyes to find no recognition in them, as if a lifetime of shared memories had been erased.  As if I had been erased.

While I was fortunate he didn't forget who I was, he certainly forgot a lot, and I could see it was a frustrating, painful experience for him. Unfortunately, Alzheimer’s is hereditary so I can’t help but occasionally imagine sharing my father’s fate.  As a preventative measure I’ve decided to back up my brain.  Over the course of the next year or nine, I’ll record every single one of my memories in the form of a video blog. This is a massive downloading project. Or is it uploading? I’ve never quite understood the difference. When I’m done recording the memories, though, I’ll hire an intern (purely platonic) to catalogue and cross-reference the material and create a massive database. That way in case I get Alzheimer’s (or amnesia for that matter but it seems less likely), I can search my archived memories with ease. Entries will be divided into Firsts, Turning Points, Family, Friends, Epiphanies, Role Models and Inspiring Figures, Patterns of Self Destructive Behavior (and Ways Out), Travel, Injuries and Accidents, Entertainment, Slights and Insults, Ones to Grow On, Adults Only, and finally Pets.  I suppose I’ll include a Miscellaneous category since there’s a lot of magic in the little memories like learning what backwash means while eating Doritos in the woods. 

The more I think about it, the more I think everyone should back up their brains.  You just never know what's going to happen especially now that some scientists believe that Alzheimer's could have a contagious element to it. The mad scientists have already proven that mice can catch the disease from each other, a fact documented in the heartwrenching memoir, "Who Moved My Cheese? What's Cheese?" If this project is going to grow exponentially, it’s time I bring Old Man Zuckerberg into the fold. I think backing up the brains of every man, woman, and child would be a nice follow up to Facebook. 

People say Face*!#k is about connectedness and that's true. But it's also about memory.   Most of us have accepted friend requests from people we haven't spoken to since roller skating parties were deservedly en vogue. It's easy to make fun of, but it can be fun, I admit it.  Frankenbook is one way to connect, however fleetingly, with our pasts, and I think its wild popularity (175 million members according to the irrepressible Oprah Winfrey) is evidence that people want to stay connected to their memories.  But while #uckerberg stumbled into a way to monetize memory, I think the real value of memory exists elsewhere. For me, the value of memory exists in the moment the memory was formed, in the moment of bliss or agony that slowed the world down long enough for me to learn something, long enough for me to feel truly plugged in.

For now, I’ll just record this one, in honor of my father, just like The Boy’s name:  The call came early in the morning, a day or two after I got back from visiting my father in the hospital in Lexington.  I had left Kentucky anticipating a hurried return trip in the next week or two, but I also knew he might not make it that long.  I knew this could be the last time so I had identified my parting memory, the image I would keep in my heart if it came to that — it was a smile he gave me from his bed when it was just the two of us waiting in the busy fluorescent hallway.  Anyway, I was still asleep when the phone rang. It was my brother, the person who, after my mother, shouldered the most responsibilities surrounding my father’s aging and decline. After my brother gave me the news, I hung up the phone and put my face in my pillow.  I have a sensory memory of the jagged breaths that came before my sobs that morning.  It felt like my DNA was being altered, like something was being not so much amputated but extracted. I can still feel those breaths catching in my throat and chest if I choose to stay with the memory long enough. Like I’m doing now.

 More later.

Comments

[citywendy]

Teary-eyed now, reading this, and I've never seen photos of your father as a young(er) man and my God, do you look just like him!!

[Phil Gullo]

Thanks for sharing these memories and reflections. They touch home for me and my memories.