May 29: What the Hell Happened, How It Began, Lasts

Things are about to get improbable again . . .

And the next thing that happened after that was that the Heart of Gold continued on its way perfectly normally with a rather fetchingly redesigned interior.  It was somewhat larger, and done out in delicate pastel shades of green and blue.  In the center a spiral staircase, leading nowhere in particular, stood in a spray of ferns and yellow flowers and next to it a stone sundial pedestal housed the main computer terminal.  Cunningly deployed lighting and mirrors created the illusion of standing in a conservatory overlooking a wide stretch of exquisitely manicured garden.  Around the periphery of the conservatory area stood marble-topped tables on intricately beautiful wrought-iron legs.  As you gazed into the polished surface of the marble the vague form of instruments became visible, and as you touched them the instruments materialized instantly under your hands.  Looked at from the correct angles the mirrors appeared to reflect all the required data read-outs, thought it was far from clear where they were reflected from.  It was in fact sensationally beautiful.

Relaxing in a wickerwork sun chair, Zaphod Beeblebrox said, "What the hell happened?"

And so, instead of being blown into radioactive dust, the Heart of Gold spaceship and its motley crew (not the rock group) are in some kind of improbably alternative reality.  Plus, their lives have been saved, and their surroundings have been given a stunning face lift.  You couldn't ask for a better outcome when faced with the threat of nuclear oblivion.

My focus, though, is on Zaphod's last comment--"What the hell happened?"  Here I sit on my living room couch, typing this post.  Tomorrow night, I will be sitting in a gymnasium, watching my daughter receive her high school diploma, thinking to myself, "What the hell happened?"

In the past few weeks, there have been a lot of lasts in my daughter's life, and I've written about each and every one of them in great detail, from her Senior Awards night to her last choral/band concert.  They've been wonderful and horrible at the same time.  The finality of it all kind of takes my breath away.  After tomorrow night, everything changes for my daughter.  No turning back. 

What the hell happened?

I remember the day that we found out that my wife was pregnant with Celeste.  We had just returned from a weekend trip to New York City where we'd traipsed all over Manhattan and taken in a couple of Broadway shows.  (Cabaret and The Lion King, in case you were wondering.)  That Monday morning, my wife found a lump in her breast, and that threw us into a rushed frenzy of doctor's appointments and tests.

When my wife was asked by the radiology tech if there was a chance that she was pregnant, she said, "I don't know."  That led us down to the lab for a blood test, and then back to the radiology office to wait for the results.  After about a half hour, Beth was called into a consultation room.  A few minutes later, she came back into the waiting room smiling and crying at the same time.

That's how we found out.  We also found out that the lump in my wife's breast was an infected gland.  Nothing to worry about.  A day that began in panic and worry ended in joy and celebration.  It was one of the best days of my life.

That's what the hell happened.  On that morning, over 18 years ago, I signed on for this job--raising a little girl, reading to her, spoiling her, attending her school programs, braiding her hair after baths, planning birthday parties, bandaging skinned knees and broken hearts, watching her grow into this beautiful creature who lives in my attic now. 

I am not a huge fan of last anythings.  Last day of school.  Of my father's life.  Of my sister's life.  Of my job at the surgery center.  Of Christmas vacation.  Of summer vacation.

Of my daughter's childhood.

Saint Marty needs a glass of wine.