Tag: memories

Holding On to Moments That Last

A few weeks ago, I took my son to the airport. It was the first time he was going on a trip without me. And not just without me, he was traveling for the first time as an unaccompanied minor.

He was growing increasingly nervous leading up to his trip, and each day, his anxiety showed more on his face. I woke him up early that morning to give us plenty of time to check in and get my gate pass, which added a slow, sleepy haze to his nervousness.

We passed through security and headed towards the gate. I checked his boarding pass and looked at the signage. We were two terminals away and the gate was the second to last in the terminal, which meant we had a hike in front of us.

I led the way as he trailed behind me, his loaded backpack hanging over his shoulder, adding weight to his burden. I offered to carry it for him, but he declined. His face was blank, his mouth slightly open, drawing in air, as we pushed forward until we entered the terminal for his gate.

“I’m so hungry,” he moaned.

“Ok, pal, we’ll find something closer to the gate.”

We pressed on through a largely empty terminal, the stores and eateries closed. He reminded me every few minutes of how tired and hungry he was, in case I forgot. I said a little prayer that there would be a place for him to get food and that he would have enough time to get it near his gate. Fortunately, there was a food court with a Sbarro within view of the gate.

He slumped into a chair, dropping his bag off his shoulder, as I went to order him food. I glanced over, and he had the same exhausted, blank expression on his face. I brought him a slice of pepperoni pizza and a glass of water, placing them in front of him.

After it cooled, he hunched over and took a few bites.

“I’m too tired to eat.”

“Ok, pal.”

I packed up his food and picked up his backpack.

“Let’s get you to the gate,” I offered.

He stood up slowly and followed me the rest of the way.

His flight was already boarding, so I went to the desk to let them know he was there. We stood off to the side as they finished boarding, which is when there was enough of a pause for me to start missing him, even before he left my sight.

I thought about the previous day. When I dropped him off to school, he asked me if I would play basketball after I picked him up.

“Maybe,” I said. I knew I had a big day at work ahead of me, and I didn’t want to commit and then disappoint him if I was too busy or tired.

And I was. But the first thing he said to me when he stepped into the car was to ask about playing basketball. Every exhausted fiber of me wanted to say ‘no,’ but I knew I’d miss him terribly and wanted to spend every minute with him.

“Only if you want to lose,” I responded. The smile on his face, followed by him cracking his knuckles and neck, was everything, followed closely by our time on the court playing, and laughing, and being together.

Standing at the gate, I reminded him of our games the day before, including the game where he beat me 21 to 0. There was a glimpse of energy, and a smile, and I felt lighter.

The agent finished boarding the other passengers and came to us to escort my son to the plane. I gave my son a hug and a kiss, put on a brave smile as he disappeared down the jetway.

I stood at the window, watching the pilots finish their preflight checks before the jet bridge was retracted. The airplane pushed back and entered the flow of traffic to taxi to the runway. Once it disappeared from my view, I began my long journey back through the airport, to the car, and finally to the house, which felt emptier without my son.

It was terribly quiet.

But as I left later that morning to go to work, I saw the basketball on the floor of the garage and was instantly reconnected with my son through the memory of our games the day before.

He’s growing up so quickly. Each step he takes towards independence means there will be fewer moments like the ones we’ve shared. Each year, he’ll need me a little less, and that’s how it’s supposed to be.

But until then, I’ll seize every chance to create more memories, so that even when we’re apart, it feels like we’re still together.

Ballpark Memories

Growing up, I didn’t spend much time with my biological father. My parents divorced when I was two, and my mother had custody of my sister and me.

Our father would pick us up for holidays, or to swim in our grandparents’ pool on those hot New England summer days. We would occasionally visit his mother in New Hampshire. But my favorite visits were the ones when he would take us to New York to see the Yankees.

A few weeks ago, a friend gifted my son and me tickets to see the Philadelphia Phillies. It was our first game this season, and I’m glad we got at least one in before the season ended.

Since it was just the two of us, it reminded me of the Yankee games with my father. I remember going to the games early and watching the players warm up. I remember running down to the first row next to the field, getting a closer look at them, and catching a ball tossed into the stands as they left the field. But even though I know he was there, I don’t remember my father at those games.

I don’t remember having meaningful father-son conversations. I don’t remember even talking about the game. I don’t remember us joking or celebrating the wins and the dramatic plays, or sharing the misery and disappointment of a defeat. It wasn’t a shared experience.

As I sat there with my son, I wondered how he would look back on this time with me. Will he remember how we bring our gloves to every game in case of a fly ball? Will he remember how I act surprised every time he eats an inhuman amount of hot dogs or a whole pizza? Will he remember how we call out to our favorite players, and will he see me on the other side of the high fives after a big play?

I am not trying to rewrite the past, but I can shape the present. My father’s absence taught me how important it is to be fully present when we are together. Not just sitting in the seat next to my son, but sharing in the joy, the laughter, and the heartbreak that come with the game.

I don’t just want him to remember going to games.

I want him to remember that we went together.

Looking Back

We had a friend over recently and showed her a video from one of my son’s baseball games. We streamed the movie from my Google Photos account through my phone on to our television. Once the video was done, I pulled up another video from the library because most of the pictures and videos from my son’s entire life are stored there. We watched a silly hockey battle video we made when my son was two. A video of our family sledding in the Rocky Mountain National Park when from when we lived in Colorado.

Using these devices and technology, we don’t have to remember anything because they remember everything for us. We can type a word in to a search bar and pull up a list of memories. We can replay our lives in sequential order in a level of detail that was unimaginable even a few decades ago. Now, our lives can flash before our eyes a`t the push of a button.

Sometimes when we look at these memories, it’s like my son is seeing them for the first time. Years of his life are covered by a thick fog. Sometimes he can make out shapes if he tries hard enough, but mostly it’s just a blur. He likes seeing the videos because he likes the idea that he did those things. Meeting a football player. Getting high-fives from hockey players on their way on to the ice. Seeing the world from the top of the Empire State Building. But they’re in a convoluted state somewhere between first person and third person, but not quite either.

While it’s amazing to have these memories so readily available and the ability to look so far back into our lives, it’s also a curse. It means we can never forget those things that we might want to forget. When Google Photos or Facebook offers up a memory, they can sometimes be painful. Like the time he was in status for days and we almost lost him. Or the time he was toxic on a medicine and couldn’t move his body for two days. Or they can be reminders of a time before my son was diagnosed with epilepsy that forces me to reconcile that there was a before and that there is an after.

I’m glad that he will have the digital versions of his memories so that he knows we did everything we could to make his life special. I want him to be able to look back and know that, even though his life was sometimes hard, we didn’t let epilepsy stop us from living our lives. And, even though some of the memories can be hard, I’m grateful we have them, too. Because they also serve as a reminder of how far we’ve come.