Issue 63: In Loving Memory

I forgot the password to log in to this website… 

That was a lie. Forget I said that. I’ve honestly just been very preoccupied. Let’s do a quick recap of everything that has happened since I last wrote on April 23rd. Emeline Nicole Winton was born on April 24th. Everything else between then and now is so minuscule in comparison but we will briefly highlight a few of them since I know you baby birds wait for every little detail of my life with mouths open and wings that can’t yet fly on your own. In no particular order (in exact order), I did a really good job at the job I was working, I was made promises based on my performance, Niki quit her job to stay home full-time with our daughter based on those promises, two weeks passed, I was fired from the job I was doing really well at without reason, I started a new job at a place I am very excited about, I thanked God for peace during the process. Now, some other things this time in no particular order (for real this time), my friend Keith got married and looked happier than I have ever seen him in his life and I’ve seen him ride a dirt bike, my friend Evan became a father and is happier than I have ever seen him in his life and I’ve seen him get a personal message from his idol Telamor, another friend of mine found out he’s going to be a dad (I don’t know if they’ve fully rolled that news out to everyone, so I’m leaving his name out). He is happier than I’ve ever seen him in his life, and he is tall and good looking, which honestly seems like a pretty good life. My friend Tanner asked me 154 times when the next Daily Dispatch would be written, my friend Tanner moved to Colorado and had a second kid, my friend Tanner was promised he would be mentioned in the next Daily Dispatch, my friend Tanner better be happy about this. 

My friend (and older sister by proxy for many, many years) Kari complimented my writing to a degree that made me finally sit down and resume. I got really into buying stuff on eBay, I turned 30, I was convinced that Elvis isn’t dead and Stevie Wonder isn’t blind, I met cool people, I did cool things, I did stuff y’all can only dream of, and yet again I say, it is all so inconsequential compared to the overwhelming joy of Emeline’s birth.

Now that the recap is over, and your little bellies are full of morsels of a life well lived, we can begin the issue properly. Welcome to what I expect to be one of the more tear jerky of tear jerky Daily Dispatches, Issue 63: In Loving Memory.

I’m jealous of my brother Cole. Not because he’s cooler than I am, though he is. Not because he has significantly better fashion, though he does. Not because he lives in New York, because frankly I love square footage. I’m not even jealous that he is a half inch taller than me or the fact he has more talent in that extra half inch of height than I have in all 5’10” of me. No, I’m jealous of Cole’s memory. 

Don’t get me wrong, I can memorize things with the best of them. At one point in my life I memorized over 160 digits of pi. I’ve memorized every Super Bowl winner in order. I’ve memorized blackjack perfect strategy charts, sports statistics, and so many phone numbers, but I can’t remember a single detail about Thanksgiving when I was 9 years old. I don’t remember what we ate at Wrigley Field in 2003. I assume it was hotdogs, but Cole, who was 5 at the time, can probably tell you exactly. I don’t remember the song that was playing in my headphones the moment I first stepped foot in New York City, though Cole will tell you he was listening to “All The Time” by Bahamas and when he showed it to me because he thought I would like it, I made fun of the song only to show it to him years later because I thought he would like it and I forgot he had showed it to me first. He once figured out exactly which game we saw at Turner Field in 2006 because “it was early afternoon on a Thursday and the Braves played against a team wearing black”. It was the Marlins vs the Braves on Thursday, July 27th, 2006 at 1:05 in the afternoon. 

I can memorize while he remembers. 

Memory is something I think about a lot. Many issues of the Daily Dispatch have been centered around it, alluded to it, or were recollections of memories passed. Whether it is how precious we should hold a memory, how much we can trust what we remember, or how we will be remembered when we’re gone, I’m constantly thinking about it in quiet moments. Maybe because I can’t remember what I thought about it last time… 

Maybe why I envy Cole’s memory so much is I’ve seen what happens when memories slip away, when the mind that once held them starts to let go.

I have had two grandmothers with dementia. It is a nasty and unfair affliction. One has passed and one is still with us. I used to think the worst thing would be to have no memories worth keeping. I was wrong. The worst thing is having memories worth keeping and watching them disappear. With my mom’s mom, this is happening slowly. Though she is still with us, she is not the “GG” I remember. Most conversations are circuitous and definitional. “Who is that in the picture again?” Constantly re-laying the foundation makes it difficult to build any new memories. She still remembers where the red in my beard comes from, how silly my grandpa is, and how much she loves the Vols.

And I’ll keep answering the same questions over and over and over when we visit her because one day I know I’ll be thankful for these memories. Some of her is better than none of her. I know I’ll always remember the taste of her boiled custard and how we’d make it together at Christmas and she’d let me drink it until my stomach hurt, though she doesn’t remember how to make it anymore. I’ll remember driving a six-foot-tall stuffed elephant to her for Christmas one year even though last time we were there she asked me, “What are all these elephants for?” They are her favorite animals, and through the years she has all kinds of figurines, stuffed animals, and even a dollar bill folded into the shape of an elephant I made her when I was in middle school. No, the irony isn’t lost on me that elephants are known for their memories. 

Part of me is secretly hoping, when she asks me my daughter’s name again, and I tell her again, maybe she just wants to make sure I still remember.

We now have many pictures of Emeline and her great grandmother “GG” together. The beautiful thing is, when we look at the pictures in the future, we won’t remember her asking what we’re doing for lunch 15 times before we leave, we will remember that they met each other and both smiled. 

I’ve seen this story unfold twice, but not in the same way. My dad’s mom passed away eight years ago, and her dementia was much much more aggressive. Nanny was an amazing woman known for her brilliant mind. She was a nurse, a teacher, and a librarian. Learning, knowing, and remembering were parts of what made her who she was. The aggressiveness of her dementia was both more heartbreaking and, in ways, more comforting. 

My dad is a gentle, patient, and emotionally steady man. Watching him help her was both inspiring and difficult. What stuck with me the most was watching as he sat with her. I couldn’t help but notice it seemed he was holding onto memories while she was simply holding his hand. She had her moments, but in large part, she forgot. 

Towards the end, we visited her, and even though she didn’t remember my name, there was a knowing in her eyes. If nothing else, she knew that someone had put my picture on her dresser and that was something. So there was also love in her eyes. It seems you don’t have to remember someone to remember you love them. 

I think one of the most beautiful and unexpected things that happened when her memory left was she forgot that her husband had been gone for 25 years. A temporary mercy. She asked where he was, which was sad in some ways, but also so tender in knowing that heartache was momentarily gone. I know they are together again today.

I never got to meet my dad’s dad as he passed before I was born. When someone you love dies before you’re born, all your memories of them are secondhand. You inherit them through stories. My dad and I went to a funeral one time and I listened to many people tell stories of this man who shaped my dad into who he is. My dad shaped me into the man I am. Because of this, in many ways, dad’s dad shaped me too. When I was in first or second grade, we had to do a project on one of our heroes. I did mine on Dad’s dad. I have a shirt that my dad said reminds him of something his dad would wear, and so, though I never got to meet him, I have a shirt that reminds me of my grandad. That is the man Nanny forgot she lost, and has now found again in Heaven. 

They say losing a husband or wife is like losing part of yourself. I believe that. I genuinely believe, in many, many ways, Niki and I became one the day we said “I do.” It wasn’t metaphorical. It was spiritual, but, in many ways, it was also logistical. The things I used to remember, she remembers now. The things she forgets, I keep for her. I don’t have to remember how to get to places we drive all the time because Niki tells me where to turn. She doesn’t need to remember to take the trash to the street every Wednesday because I do it before she wakes up. Somewhere between us is the full record. Our shared autobiography is stored across two minds.

Maybe it’s morbid, but we have often joked about which of us will die first. We each have our reasons for why it will be us. If I had it my way, one day when we are old and gray, when the dust on our photo albums has collected dust, we would lie down beside each other, hold hands, and drift up to Jesus. But I’ve learned this is not quite how it works. Someone has to stay behind. Someone gets left with one half of so many stories and no alibi, with the heartbreak of the best parts of themselves laid to rest. The more I think about it, the more I pray that I am the one to carry that burden, not because I’m stronger, but because I couldn’t bear to think of her carrying it.

On April 24th, Emeline was born. When either Niki or I do pass, we won’t have to carry all the memories alone. She will remember us, but she is also a living memory. I hope that Emeline takes all day to drink a cup of coffee, so one day someone finds a half-finished cup at 3 in the afternoon and has to warm it up for the tenth time, because then a small piece of Niki will be remembered and loved by people who never knew her. I pray that Emeline grows up with her mother’s gentleness, her humor, and her forgetfulness of grudges. And I pray she develops her own little uniquenesses, the kind that someone feels privileged to know and remember forever.

One of the most beautiful things about love is that I know where I’m going when I die, and I know what is being left behind when I go. I think about that sometimes when I watch Niki and Emeline together; two people I love most in this world, already storing parts of each other in places I can’t reach.

On Wednesday, we had a funeral for Niki’s grandma Jackie. A wonderful, pure, classy woman. Someone who is well remembered and well loved. As I read, “In Loving Memory” on the pamphlet as people walked in, I thought, “Maybe that’s what ‘In Loving Memory’ really means.” Not just remembering the ones we love, but loving the ones we remember. Because love, at its best, is the act of remembering someone fully, even when they can’t remember you back.

Dedicated to Maxine Winton, Gail Patton, and Jackie Wardlow.
In loving memory of Maxine Winton and Jackie Wardlow.