“Remember that time when we went to Harrisburg with those random guys we met at the Fall Ball?” Girlfriend Number Three (names redacted to protect the guilty) gasped.
“That was me. Alone,” Number One responded.
“It was?” Three said, crinkling her nose. “I could have sworn I was there.”
“You absolutely weren’t there. That’s why the story is so appalling. And why you should all be thankful I am still alive.”
The six of us tittered and continued regaling each other with stories of what we should and shouldn’t have done over the course of our 50-year friendship.
We were gathered in Higgins Beach, Maine for our annual get-together at one of the girl’s (we’ll always be girls) family homes that we have frequented ever since we met in college. Sitting on the porch overlooking the crashing waves we jumped into each other’s stories, filling in details, asking impertinent questions, and hijacking the mic. It’s what we have always done, some of us more than others, blaming our loquaciousness on being verbal processors.
But somewhere between the stories of the moldy bird seed on the white wedding tux, the Mexico boating incident, and the infamous arrest – all stories we’ve been a part of and / or heard hundreds of times – it became apparent that some facts were no longer facts at all.
“You were a sociology major,” Girlfriend Number Four challenged. “You didn’t even take computer science.”
“Are you sure?” Number Six asked with furrowed brow.
“Positive!” Numbers One through Five effused in unison.
Somewhere during that weekend – in the car on the way to Ogunquit, or when eating lobster that had been wild-caught just hours before, or while walking past the old-age home on the cliffs – talked turned from rotator cuffs, foot surgeries, and neuropathy to wills and funerals and DNRs.
“What does DNR stand for again?” Number Two asked.
“Do not remember,” Number One snarked.
And thus DNR became the weekend’s theme.
When one of us stumbled on a detail we just declared, “DNR.” If one of us lost a word, like what’s that brown liquid you add to an Old Fashioned, or where do you keep those things to dry the dishes with, or pass me some of that green stuff – we just called it as we saw it, another DNR.
We hooted over our ingenuity and cackled our way through another drink.
This year Number Three came up with a novel idea – a non-eating, non-drinking Sunday night activity. A month prior to our gathering she challenged us to participate in a book club, choosing The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes.
The Sense of an Ending is a thought-provoking novel that delves into memory, time, and how we construct our own narratives. It explores the intricate workings of memory, how it can shape and reshape one's history, relationships, and identity. It underlines the significance of introspection and how our narratives of the past might sometimes distort the reality of our actions and their consequences.
(Summary taken straight from Google. Believe me, I’m not that smart. Or succinct.)
The non-readers in the group as well as those of us who DNR what we’ve read minutes after we’ve closed our kindles, agreed that it was spot on – short, profound, and perfectly appropriate.
It made us realize that while our ever-advancing age is indisputably a factor, perhaps our blips can be attributed simply to having been blessed with a life jam-packed with more memories than our brains can keep up with.
We may bumble and blank, falter and flail, misremember and downright lie, but as long as we don't forget those who have been by our side crafting our lives chapter by chapter, we'll all be just fine. While lifelines come in different shapes, sizes, and personalities they all are built on the same foundation. I foresee a future in which one of us tosses a rope, another grabs on tight, one sheds tears as we spiral, and yet another roars laughing as we reemerge.
And I have to hold on to hope that not one of us will ever, ever say that we DNR being loved. Loved for who we once were, who we are now, and who we will become.
Even if we forget some of the details along the way.
