Incurable

When parents are expecting a new baby, they don’t know what that little person will turn out like. They have hopes and goals, but no one can predict the future. When my parents were expecting me, they selected my godmother, Fish, because they loved her and knew she was a good person. They could not have known they would pick someone who would have such an impact on my life.

I don’t want to diminish my relationship with Fish by associating it too much with things, but a lot of what I remember of her is through her gifts to me. She always managed to get me something right on trend, something I would adore. A dancing flower, a hair crimper, my first camera.

Every single birthday and Christmas, like clockwork, I would receive a card from Fish. We would exchange notes where I am sure my end was appropriately childish. She told me about travelling around the world. By herself. And later, when I started to travel around the world, we were able to exchange notes. “You’re going where? I always want to go there.” “I just got back. It was wonderful.” “Someday I will get there.”

We were kindred spirits in that we were both infected by an incurable travel bug.

Thirteen months ago, for the first time in my memory, I didn’t receive a birthday card from Fish. It was around then she found out she was infected by an equally incurable bout of cancer.

Last Friday I went to Cleveland with my mother to visit Fish and say goodbye. She wanted me to go through her travel room, thinking I might appreciate her foreign treasures and souvenirs. While she lay weak in her hospital bed, I went back and forth from the travel room to her bedside. “Where did you get this?” (Peru) “You walked the Great Wall of China? That’s awesome.” (The hardest part were the tiny steps.) “Where is this mask from?” (Kenya or Tanzania, I forget.) “What’s this in the frame?” (Man’s skirt from the Amazon.) “You’re so close to the orangutan in this picture!” (Borneo. Don’t go to Borneo.) “Why do you own an Emily Post book? I know you’ve never read it.” (I don’t know. I just thought it was funny.)

When I left Fish’s house, I told her I loved her and how neat it was that we shared a love of travel and taking pictures wherever we went. “I don’t take as good of pictures as you do,” she said. “Right,” I agreed. “But you gave me my first camera so you get the credit.” She smiled.

Fish passed away on Saturday, about 24 hours after I was having these really great conversations with her. I could have had a really terrible goodbye. I could have to work to not remember her bald head or weak body, but instead I am able to remember the great conversations we were able to have, for which I am incredibly grateful.