Aperture

I stared at Cindy's hands for hours when she was in the ICU. I scanned every crack in her skin. I traced the angles of her veins. And I counted the hairs on her knuckles. I thought that if I fixated my eyes long enough on her hands that I could develop a mental photograph of them to keep with me forever--a permanent record.

Some of you may recall a time when Cindy held your hand, or gave you one of her famous massages, or placed her hand on your arm when you needed support. As I have mentioned before, Cindy was naturally affectionate and her hands served as her primary instrument for expressing comfort, kindness, and love. I will never forget how soft her hands were or how surprisingly tiny her fingers were. She often joked that her hands were perfect for work in sweatshop. And although she rarely ever received a manicure, she had the strongest and most elegant nails I have ever seen.

Anyone who knows me well understands that my memory is not the best. My lack of retention for the details infuriated Cindy. There were many instances where I would ask Cindy the same question over and over: “Wait, what are you doing after work?” “You have clinicals today, right?” or her favorite, “We’re celebrating our anniversary when?”

Cindy would talk to me on the phone and, without fail, when she knew I was distracted she’d interrupt the conversation with “Hey Memories, what did I just say?” I hated that question because I knew I had not retained half of what Cindy had just said to me. So, whenever she asked me that question, my answer was always “You said that you loved me more than life itself and that you would never leave me no matter how severe my Alzheimer’s.”

Cindy tried to understand why I could only capture fifty percent of what she told me throughout a day. I tried to explain that in my professional life, I was required to remember a great amount of minute detail for my clients. Therefore, in my private life, I could only preserve the essentials. To this day, I recall the entire outfit she was wearing the first day I met her, I can still smell the dinner she ate the night she told me that she was falling in love with me, and I remember the feel of the shirt she was wearing the night I first kissed her. These were the details that I wanted to hold with me until my death and afterward.

It should come as no surprise then that I have always identified with the lead character from the movie, “Memento.” In this film, the lead character suffers from amnesia after experiencing a trauma during a brutal attack on his wife. This renders his brain unable to store new memories. To deal with this condition, he maintains a system of notes, photographs, and tattoos to chronicle information about him and others. While Cindy found his character exasperating, I found him resourceful and creative. And I envied his willingness to go so far as to brand his body for the sake of memory.

I think back to the hours I stared at Cindy’s hands and held them in my own. I don’t think I stared long enough. I should have held them longer. I can’t remember the number of lines in her knuckles. It’s times like these when I wish I were a painter, a sculptor, or some sort of artist who could have captured her hands for posterity. Yes, I have my random memories, but as the distance increases I worry that the mental photographs will become more abstract. I want my images to capture exactly what my eyes saw. I am envious of Frida Kahlo who once said, “I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.” When it comes to that which is closest to us, the dreams are not enough.