Though my memory itself is hazy, I think I spent much of my childhood somewhat sealed off, spaced out, in my own world, ADHD’d, monkey-minded, whatever you want to call it. The result was that I would lose things constantly. I grew quite used to the disappointment and anger felt by myself and my parents, for having wasted money, for having been dissociated, for having been careless enough for it to happen again. So, part of me eventually learned to seal myself off from ruminating on those mistakes. From thinking about the losses. From replaying in my head both the negative feelings and the positive memories associated with the object. So, almost everything that I forgot at some time or another, in some classroom or park, I eventually forgot having existed in the first place. It was a brutal cycle of dissociation. I’ve gotten a lot better at remembering, but it has been an active effort.

Last year, I lost a watch that my father picked out for me in India, paid for by my now-dead great-grandfather. It was the only inheritance I received from my father’s 103-year-old grandfather. It was black, round, thin, gentle, and had a soft leather band. I didn’t like it, or watches in general. It sat in my nightstand drawer. Years later, I started wearing it in college. I suddenly liked watches. So did the many people that complimented me on it. “It’s so thin!,” they’d say. I’d nod, smile. One day, during spring break, I drove with some friends to an acquaintance’s house. Sorry, mansion. Sorry, her pool-house. We got drunk (our DD did not). I had the good mind to take the watch off before getting in her hot tub. I did not have the good mind to put it back on. I texted her if she could please, please look for it in the couch where I took it off. She said she would. She found nothing. But she’d also ask her housekeeper to look for it inside the couch. I didn’t bother after that. When I told my dad, he grimaced. “I spent so long picking that out for you! It was so thin!” I told him I was well aware. 

I suppose it sucks that it was also the last remaining connection I had to my dad’s side of the family in India. I only “suppose” because I’m not sure how I feel, other than mad at myself for losing it. I don’t really wish that I knew my great-grandfather better, or that my dad was more open or accepting about his family, or about his Indian-ness. I mostly just wish that I still had it, because it made me confident in my wrist, and it brought me compliments, and because I also lost its replacement, a silver Casio digital watch that I found on the street. I left that watch at an IM soccer game. Aside from my grandparents, I also have no meaningful relationships with his family here in America. That’s not true. There is much meaning there. But little of it is accessible, felt, found. I suppose it’s not that I “forgot” about all those lost water bottles, jackets, earbuds, and relationships. But part of me sealed off access to their felt meaning.

My uncle is in the ICU in UCSF, dying after three years of cancer. My dad’s older brother. They did not speak for over ten years. I had not seen him in longer. They reconnected about 8 months ago. Yesterday, with my dad, I met him as an adult. Eight hours later, both of us said goodbye. I leaned over his chest for much of that time, my eyes and ears trained on his mucus-filled mouth. I was interpreting him as he slowly gasped out deformed syllable after syllable, words, phrases, sentences, memories, answers, suggestions, acceptances. My dad couldn’t make sense of the sounds over the hissings of his breathing apparatuses. I struggled to. There were many words lost. Eventually, the noisiest machine was removed, turned off, and I left the room so that they could talk alone. My dad told me that he supposed (there’s that word again) it went well. He asked his brother “all the hard questions.” About all those years spent apart. About everything sealed off. About all their lost time. 

I suppose I know that our dissociative parts are only trying to help—both brothers are massively successful MD, PhDs. And I suppose I don’t yet know how I feel about yesterday. But today, I walked out of class with my jacket still draped over my chair. Twice. Both times, I realized soon enough. And tomorrow, I have therapy. I’ve gotten better at remembering.