How reading sometimes (unexpectedly) unearths memories

I assume this happens to many or at least some other readers. Often if I’m reading something and another book is mentioned I will look up that book to see if that might be something I might also be interested in reading. I recently finished The Correspondent (which I enjoyed) and in it, the protagonist exchanges letters with many fictional characters but also some real celebrities like Joan Didion. In those letters the protagonist mentions Didion’s Blue Nights which I then borrowed from my local library, and when that book mentioned The Year of Magical Thinking (I’ve been reading a lot about death it seems) I borrowed that one too. In the first pages she has a scene where she catalogs all the personal effects she was given at the hospital from her deceased husband. I stopped reading. Quite forcefully an image from my past intruded.

My mom had had her first stroke suddenly and unexpectedly at age 60. She had never had any indication of problems with her heart or blood pressure, plus sixty is young (or maybe I only think that because I’m only five years away). What that scene in the book reminded me of was the moment days or weeks after the stroke, as she was recovering at home, when I could not find her beloved watch that she never took off.

My mother had come to Long Island for the weekend to celebrate my bridal shower. She arrived on Friday June 8, 2001. The only thing I remember about that Friday was that I was telling her a funny story about my soon-to-be husband and she laughed so hard she shook as tears rolled down her cheeks. This was not a common occurrence and so it became in the coming weeks, the memory I kept accessing to remind me what a wonderful time we had BS (Before Stroke, which was also BS). The following day, my sister, her and I headed to NYC for the bridal luncheon and the following morning they both flew back to their respective homes.

That Sunday night (I found out later) my mom went to church by herself and had a stroke at some point in the mass. Did someone realize immediately? I don’t know. Did they only realize at the end of the Mass when she appeared to have fallen asleep but wasn’t getting up? I don’t know. I do know an ambulance took her to the hospital, they called my dad at home, he rushed to the hospital without his recently acquired cell phone and stayed with her all night. The next morning, he went home to change and called my sister and I to fly down. She survived this and other strokes and lived for another fourteen years.

Anyway, back to the watch. She never took her watch off. It was either Cartier, Rolex or Omega. I can’t remember. My mom told me once she had always dreamed of said watch and told herself she would work hard enough and save money to get it. It was a ridiculous luxury $800 or so but why shouldn’t she get it when she worked so hard, she said. This kind of behavior was unusual for my mom. My mom never cared about clothes, shoes, handbags, jewelry, cars, anything material really. She didn’t have expensive hobbies; she barely wore any makeup except lipstick and powder. As far as I know she only got a manicure for her two daughters’ weddings. She was not a woman prone to frivolity of any kind, but she had dreamed of this watch and she got it. And that night, either at the church, in the ambulance or at the hospital, it disappeared. What makes me so angry is that the person who stole it took it from a woman straddling life and death, helpless and weak. They took it knowing no one would notice until it was too late. I’m sure this happens, maybe quite often, but it’s despicable.

It surprised me how something that I haven’t given much thought to in the last twenty-five years came rushing back so forcefully. Of course, a talented writer can pull you into a scene of loss, desperation, and confusion so effectively that personal instances bubble up. That initial anger over my mom’s lost watch (after I read the Didion passage) was followed by a reminder of my struggle to accept the version of my mother that remained post stroke. It took me way too long to accept the altered version of my mom that changed with every subsequent stroke and pushed further away the mother I knew and cherished growing up.

I guess there is no point to this post other than observing how reading about some other person’s experience can sometimes throw a reader into an unforeseen life examination. The anger I still feel over the stolen watch is clearly touching on being robbed of my adult years with my mom. Missing out on sharing every milestone following that from finally completing my graduate degree to her meeting and getting to know her grandchildren in more than a cursory way. I don’t spend too much time in this space because I know life isn’t fair and dwelling on it won’t change that, but every so often when I find myself here again, I let myself mourn the loss of a life with my mom.

Is it the same for you? Has a book, movie, or song ever brought up something unexpected? I’d love to hear about it.

One of a handful of pictures I have with my mom holding her first grandchild. Less than two months after this picture was taken, she had her second much more severe stroke that left her wheelchair bound and unable to depend on her right side. I do love the way they are looking so intensely at each other.