Black rings
of pigment soaked through the newsprint and rendered his astrological forecast on
the opposite page unreadable. Two sides of fate unknown. On his side, the
obituaries bled sadness in words like “survived by”, “gone too soon”, “memorials” but these, too, were buried under
ink. Some photographs- men in WWII uniforms, women with bee-hived coifs-
remained unblemished. The wedding pictures with couples in pointed collars and polyester
slacks, poufy dresses and long middle-parted hair, the ones that edged up to his generation, (imprints of the
70s in blurry black and white. His 30s) those were the ones blackened with spirals of ink and underlined numbers.
When my dad
was slowly dying of an incurable, unknowable, unyielding degenerative brain disease,
when he couldn’t actually comprehend much of the daily news in his hands, he
reduced his search for meaning to solid numbers. Greater or less than. Or equal
to. 10/03/1941. Circles for greater than. Circles for younger than. Circles for sicker
than. Or run over by a truck. Or killed in Iraq (but those were the really
young ones and almost didn’t count).
People were living longer. But not him. Terminal, they said. Those guys in white coats with the listening pieces and pens scribbling on white flatness. Those guys that were the thing that he was. Doctor. That thing that seemed to his family, maybe to him, like a lifetime ago.
People were living longer. But not him. Terminal, they said. Those guys in white coats with the listening pieces and pens scribbling on white flatness. Those guys that were the thing that he was. Doctor. That thing that seemed to his family, maybe to him, like a lifetime ago.
He was in
his late 50s in a time when 80 was the new 70 and terminal only seemed to mean
“try harder”. But there was no trying harder to survive, no fighting, no recovery. Just research drugs and brain scans and proven degeneration. He knew he wouldn’t
live to 70. Maybe not even 60 (the new 55?).
He would
lose his mind and die. That was the only certainty, they said. No why or when
or how (exactly), but a certainty about an end that had been easily ignored
before the diagnosis. The circles proved it true. Death could happen.They were younger. He was
already losing. He stopped taking the medicine that could have slowed the
progress of glucose digesting his frontal cortex. It made him feel sick. Yet which
sickness was worse when death was so clearly imminent? He wanted to control something, get even somehow, even if the pills equaled zero.
I would
find the thumbed-through, marked-up newspapers on the coffee table and shudder. What was
the point of keeping score?
Now I
understand.
There are
pillows propping up my head. I have lost track of what I am reading because I am
doing calculations in my mind. The author says her son is 22 and she is 44 and
therefore she was pregnant at 21 or 22 and that is 16 years younger than me. My
sister was pregnant two years ago at 37. My friends have newborns, toddlers, teenagers.
36, 34, 19.
Shit.
I do not
circle their kid’s names in thick black ink in books I’m reading, on baby-blocked
birth announcements, on my computer screen when the posts of little fingers and
toes and poop reports outnumber the political musings of the singles. I do not
cut up my diaphragm to speed up a process that I somehow feel caught up in from
the sidelines, unsure of whether or not to play. I do not throw around possible baby names with my partner (that
is a lie. I have. I do. Not all the time. Not much recently. But it happens). But
these numbers haunt me. Each moment seems to be simultaneously a lost chance
and an artistic project saved. I want to have control. I want the death of my un-familied
life to come at just the right time. After I have done things, become someone, published a book, sailed the world (or at least to Alaska),
lived fully. Because somehow I think that a child would bury my current way of
being. That I would lose a part of my mind that creates stories, that dreams in
nautical miles and waves and whales, that thrives on long walks and slow drinks and
sleeping in. I tell myself I am not quite ready for the death of this life. So
I wait for a perfect time that I know may never come. The doctors say that I don't have much time left. Where is my courage to lose all
that I know and discover something else/more? And really, I'm not even satisfied with the amount of creative space in my life as it stands!
Time is running out to change, to be, to publish, to procreate! And I do nothing.
When my dad
lost his mind and even those numbers on newsprint became a jumble of
incomprehensible shapes, the pictures un-tellable stories in his inaccessible
thoughts, he became happy. Un-recognizably (to me) friendly. Not all the time,
but more than I had ever seen. Or felt. He seemed to be another person. And even
if I was embarrassed when he licked ketchup bottles at restaurants or pet every
dog we passed whether or not the startled owner consented, I could see the joy
and curiosity bubbling up and taking the place of all the self-criticism and
grief and anger. He was at home in the present moment and did not seem to comprehend the
past or have any thought for the future. He became outgoing and talkative (as
he had been decades earlier) even if his speech was limited to a few words
repeated over and over and over again.
Do That. Do
That. Do That.
He was
living a different life in the same linear, bodily lifetime.
One where
he would Do That without thinking of the outcome or consequences, where
expectations had little room to squirm and disrupt the present moment in his
disintegrating (enlightened?) mind.
Like a child.
And in so
many sometimes-subtle, sometimes-dramatic ways, this is what we do: live many
lives within the parentheses of this body in ways that we do not (cannot) cognitively
understand. Whether or not we consent to let go of the control we think we have,
we are constantly dying and discarding, growing and layering, and always carrying forward.
The story
is not over, even when the numbers stop making sense. They are always just
incomprehensible squiggles on a page even when we think we know what we are
looking at. Maybe that is where the next story begins. We are not a chapter but a novel. None of this is calculated. No amount of adding or subtracting,
comparing ages, comparing lives will mean anything. I know this. Or I think I
know this. He was 61 when he died. I was 25. I am 38. 23 years to go. All
numbers, all dreams, pages to turn. What if I let go of the concept of knowing and figuring and simply
breathe into this day the desire of my body to live, to give life, to survive
and be survived?
Who will I
(we) be then? More than a photo circled in ink, more than a number filed into a
hospital database, more than a ma.ma.ma? Or less. Greater than, less than.
Equal to what?
This is not an equation. There is no formula to figure out dying, birthing, living.
This is not an equation. There is no formula to figure out dying, birthing, living.
There is
only space and time and body and love.
>Do That.
>Do That.
