A meditation on memory: A Three Dog Life

He died? In a simple sentence on the last page of the book, we are told that Rich Rogin died on Jan 1, 2007. I couldn’t help but feel slapped in the face. I was all set to put the book down and think, nice, a really nice read. I thought I had come to a quiet acceptance, just as Abigail Thomas did. She found a way to live her life in calm, contentment after her husband’s tragic accident. And she was able to maintain this because her husband Rich was still physically on this earth. So by saying, Oh by the way, you know the man who this whole book was centered on, you know the brain injured one, well yeah, he died. What am I supposed to think? Instead of resolution, there are just unanswered questions. How did Abigail feel about truly losing him . . . mind, body and spirit? Will she return back to living in Manhattan now that her schedule won’t revolve around Rich’s visits? Did she feel a silent sense of relief now that she could work towards true closure?

Okay, so I’m alittle annoyed at the author (for the first time). Now instead of feeling like I understand Abigail, just a little, that I like her even, I feel unsteady. I question if I can really trust her anymore? My initial silent praises for showing me how a memoir does not have to reveal everything, are ruined. Now I think she is cruel and doesn’t really want to share with the world how she really feels. She is not willing to bleed for us. I guess I just wanted more. I always want more.

But, putting aside my needs, this last sentence was a great example of Abigail’s writing style. She likes to defy conventional, linear storytelling. In a way, having her pick and choose the moments after the accident is a good reflection of exactly how important time is afterwards. Basically, there is no importance. It doesn’t matter what she did five days after the accident. Or a year, or two and half years later. Other than a progression of where the visits with her husband take place and at times coming out and saying, “It’s been five years since the accident,” we wouldn’t even know that time is passing. Also the shape her life takes after the accident is a wonderful metaphor to how it feels to live in a kind of life/ death limbo. She sleeps, wakes up and sleeps some more. She takes her dogs for a walk. She slows down so much as to actually be conscious of each breath she takes. We are constantly being suspended in a moment by Abigail flashing back to the past only to return to the very same place she started with. As readers we are right there with Abigail feeling in between worlds. We are lost in time.

I found that Rich’s situation, his loss of short-term memory and the way he lived moments, as they unfolded without an agenda was a clever device to structure the whole book around. What a treat to describe a moment with the full senses as Abigail does repeatedly throughout the book and not have the burden of explaining all the factual stuff. We don’t know about her life before her husband Rich. We don’t know how many kids she has, how many grandchildren she has, what exactly her job is, and sometimes how she is feeling. By using memory as a spring board from chapter to chapter, we let go of the need to make sense of the orderly passage of time. I really bought into the idea of thinking about how we remember, why we remember and the significance it has in our lives.

Looking closely at how Abigail structured each chapter, I realized that the title of the chapter is like the thesis statement for what memories will be brought up. There is the constant push of the present, which is life for Abigail after the accident. But within the forward movement, there are so many movements backward in time. And the decision of which flashbacks we get to hear are all threaded together by the theme of the chapter. This theme is the only thing that keeps the reader grounded. It also gives the author permission to pick and chose what she wants to tell us.

For example in the third chapter called, Home, there are so many ways to define “home.” Abigail plays with the idea of home being a place by describing her favorite restaurants, to her apartment, to her childhood home in Flushing, NY. Then she talks about home being something that is apart of you (and can be lost) . . . such as your memory or a pocketbook that she once lost in an airport. And if we aren’t amazed enough of her ability to move through time with such ease, she brings the point of home to such a universal, relatable level. She talks about a memory twenty years ago where she asks a friend if he’s felt this chronic longing that was unidentifiable. She understands now that the name for the longing was, “here is where I belong.” (p.30) Which epitomizes the idea of home and proves that “home” is not necessarily a place, home is the feeling of belonging. She ends the chapter by trying to make sense of it all. “So many broken pieces of our life to try and fit into my sense of past and future . . . but we’re all looking for the place we belong. And what is home, anyway, but what we cobble together out of our changing selves? Maybe there isn’t any it, as my friend said, only the longing.” (p.34)

Wow, how beautiful. Overall, I have to say that I found Abigail’s writing unpretentious, soothing and insightful. She does not focus on convoluted plots and hair-raising adventures. She wallows in the meaning of the ordinary. She gives everything a meaning. And I love that. I can’t say I’d want to read this book again for enjoyment, but more as a technical study of a new kind of memoir. Abigail is like a wise Aunt that has a lot of great quotes and slices of wisdom to share. Someone you love and respect, but never fully know or understand what she is really feeling because she won’t let you. But you both know what she is doing and have accepted it.

-Lynne Connor