Hippocampus is Greek for Seahorse

“Hippocampus, Greek for seahorse…” are the only words I remember from our neurology visit. As we looked at mom’s brain, the doctor zoomed in on the brainiacs responsible for storing new data. I suppose she felt compelled to illustrate how aptly they were named.

I’ll admit she sidetracked me with that comment, but I like her anyway. She appeals to the intellect, a welcome change when emotions are crashing like Harvey’s waves, spilling devastation into Granddaddy Ray’s little world.

In the twilight glow I see
Blue eyes crying in the rain.

The next time I reviewed an MRI, it was Granddaddy Ray’s brain we were studying. In contrast to mom’s pictures – which showed little white pearls –
his scans opened into gaping white holes and cavernous blood pools.

Still, amid the wreckage, I could locate the Hippocampi. I even confirmed it with the neurosurgeon. (Held my tongue on the Greek etymology part.)

Remarkably, Granddaddy’s hippocampi were not damaged by the strokes, trauma, or days of hemorrhage and swelling. I think this explains his ability to synch-up with us while lying there asleep – utterly trapped in his body. Some of us take for granted the ability to remember.

Love is like a dying ember.
And only memories remain.

Recently I read about other old folks dying after, not during, the storm – their poor minds blown by the upheaval. As for my brain, well, I have Ray recorded. Just like this here Willie Nelson album I’m hearing in my kitchen.

Someday soon we’ll meet up yonder
We’ll stroll hand in hand again.

“My uncle survived Hurricane Maria. Despair over its devastation killed him,” wrote April Ruiz in a recent WaPo perspective. She confirmed our notion of an old, weathered brain utterly blown by the devastation lying in a hurricane’s wake.

I think she’s onto something, but I always need more than one perspective. So I’m offering up myth. (Greek, of course.)

I am imagining Granny as Persephone, her ashes woven into the ecology these last six years. Queen of the underworld, rising up from Rockport’s Little Bay with her big strong hands, uprooting trees like mere weeds.

Him. Huddling home in Rockport. Harvey hovering overhead. Her. Hollering. Demanding his return.

Heart-starved intent – not happenstance – gives me a short mental break from the devastation, loss, and pain that I witnessed in Harvey’s wake. And, most important, it frees me from the nonsensical loop of hippocampus being Greek for sea horse.

Someday soon we’ll meet up yonder
We’ll stroll hand in hand again.
In the land of knows no pardon
Blue eyes cryin’ in the rain.”

Goodbye, Grand Ray. Here’s to Hoping there’s Honkytonk in Heaven.