23rd October – 25 Years
A child born on October 23, 1983 might be in their third year of medical school, may have just passed the bar, may never pass a bar, might be married with a child of their own born on October 23. They wouldn’t be a kid anymore;* they would be a paid-up, card-carrying adult. This thought has been rather consuming for the past week, ever since my mom said to me, “Can you believe – 25 years”.
It’s four in the morning. I’m upstairs in bed wearing a white gunny-sack style nightgown with a calico print. I am on my back, arms and legs akimbo, pressed hard against the mattress. My eyes are wide and I am still. I am waiting. The blue and red lights spin and mingle with the rising of dawn’s cusp. There are no sirens; there is neither a need nor a reason to alert the neighbours. I knew there would be police. I was told this. I was told they come and tell you. I didn’t need them, or anyone, to tell me. I knew. A child always knows.
My father was dying. The police came to take my mom to him. My father had been dying for as long as I knew him, but it is always a shock, always a surprise when the gerund becomes a noun.
I have very few real memories of my dad, my Papa. There are three I know are mine – four if you add up the shards and flashes. The rest of what I know of him was bequeathed to me by my story-telling family. They are quite gifted in this regard,** but they are not mine. They are just stories.
To beef up such a paltry sum, years ago I began taking October 23rd off from either school or work. Papa and I would have a day together. We’d have a nice lunch, wander the streets, visit a museum or two and often he buys me something pretty. For years I felt him with me on these outings, but that ended some time ago. Now he has moved on and I take more comfort in this than I did by his presence – but the missing and loneliness is more deeply felt.
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October 23rd – more than on my birthday or at New Year’s – is the day I do the Gauguinian roundup of where I come from – what am I – where am I going. I think Papa would be chuffed by this year’s round-up. He’d be thrilled that I live in London. Our last name may be Irish, but he was orange to the core. I was raised – and not in a tongue and cheek way – to be a monarchist. He identified with our Scottish lineage, and I have grown to follow his lead***. There are some other improvements I’ve made – though of course there are many more to be made. I have recently received some very good advice from some rather fabulous people – old friends and new – including one who has been uncomfortably correct and off-puttingly insightful, though I have not been so completely honest with nor shown my appreciation to this person as completely as they deserve. For what they’ve given, shown, me – though inadvertently – has led to the epiphany I have been denying, but now must face so I can at last move on.
* * *
One thing that often shocks me – since I am Queen of Hopeless Hope and can be a bit too silver lining-y for my own good – is that I’ve never wished he lived nor wondered how my life would be different if he had. I don’t wish because he was immensely ill and how could I ever wish for someone I love to endure such pain. I don’t wonder because it would seem to me a treason – not only to my super-woman mom – but to me. I am who I am as much for his dying as I am for anything. Good has come from it, a great deal of good in fact. It is as it is as so often things are, so I’ll refrain from clichés and platitudes – there is no chicken soup for this soul; I’m a vegetarian. I guess that’s about all for now – except – Papa, always I’ll love you.
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* Other than in the way we people in our thirties – and/or from Peabody, MA – call people kid
**and many others.
***though I have developed a deep fondness for Ireland in recent years.
^/kick in the ass
