Memory lane

I won the family debate about where we should go on our vacation this autumn, mostly by default, because neither Christina nor Noah made a suggestion, and partially by luck, because the only other suggestion was the Baltic Sea and none of us felt particularly warmed by heading to a northern German sea in October. So, off we went to Heidelberg.

It’s where I grew up, so I was excited. Indeed, had I not been restrained, I would have dragged the family to my old elementary, middle and high schools, which were spread out across two different military facilities in the city, and then insisted upon seeing what was left of the military headquarters where my Dad worked, followed by a side trip to the former US shopping center, which, if you believe Google Maps, is now part of the University of Heidelberg. As it was, we had to make do with the Hauptstrasse, the castle, a walk through my old neighborhood and several emotional reunions with my old school bus stop, all of which I can recommend if you ever find yourself in Heidelberg (except, perhaps, the bus stop).

We were there almost a week and, because of logistics, almost every time we drove anywhere else, we had to go through Heidelberg first. It was on about the fourth trip through the city (and past my bus stop), that I remembered that, back in 2016, Heidelberg had been one of the proposed destinations for Colin to go and get his radiation therapy. I remember being excited at the time: “Required trip to my hometown” I thought, somehow thinking we’d be able to squeeze in a walk downtown in between radiation blasts. In the end, we ended up going to Essen, which had its own array of pros and cons.

So, as I sat at this stoplight, looking at the city, I wondered how I would feel about Heidelberg if this had been where Colin had ended up going on our futile mission to rid him of his cancer. I can’t imagine it would have turned me off the city forever, but it would have put a stain on the memory, to be sure. I mean, I can’t say I have any strong hatred for Essen, but I was only there three times, never for long. Christina seems to go back and forth. I’ve heard her talking about heading back to the region once or twice, but I imagine she’d want to keep a wide berth of the hospital complex.

The memories don’t work quite right any more. There are days where I can almost convince myself that the whole thing was a terrible movie I was forced to watch. That I never had a third child. That I, for some reason, forced myself to spend five years watching a terrible movie that ends with a child dying. But only almost. But parts of the memories are fading. I can’t remember his voice. His smell. I’ve idealized him in my mind into the child who almost made it, but never fussed or complained or misbehaved. But I only have to concentrate a little harder to remember that’s not true.

I wish it worked more like a technical manual, so I could pick it up and think about it when I was inclined to do so and not when I didn’t. Instead, the memories fade and then they’re jogged back to the front when I’m not remotely ready for them, when I wonder “what if” about Heidelberg or when I find out through Noah that Emma no longer listens to this one’s children’s story because it reminds her too much about Colin. Like when I’m working innocently, reading through the Press Association’s news wire and run across a story about a new treatment for juvenile brain tumors that is showing promise and I’m so glad I’m not in the office, because I froze for what felt like five minutes, though it was probably only half a minute. Because I didn’t know if the tumor they were talking about was the one Colin had, because I did everything I could not to know the specifics of his case, just wanting to be his Dad for as long as I could and not having to really ever 100% know what an embryonic tumor really was. Because what good would it have done if I’d known it’s cellular structure. I just knew that it was in the wrong place, in my son’s neck.

I’d like to have my memories work normally. I’d like them to work like they do with my parents, whom I remember mostly fondly, even if I make an occasional exception for my Mom’s oddities. I want to be happy when I remember him. Instead, every memory feels like an introduction to a mine field. Like, don’t take that step, because you might find something you can’t control. It might blow up and take all of you with it. But, at the same time, pushing the memories aside clearly doesn’t work, because they just pop up.

We experimented with watching Curious George a few weeks ago and it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Maybe I should just dive into it and watch old videos of him. Maybe I shouldn’t. I wish I knew.