A NEW ATTITUDE

A NEW ATTITUDE

I had thought for quite a while now that there is nothing new in the area of feelings and attitudes, now I am not so sure that what I knew to be true is so. Here is what has happened so far:

Until about two weeks ago it looked as if I could expect to live another three or four years; this is from the statistics for people who have what I have, and is a number not too far from the average expectancy for all men in this country. I am well aware that these statistics imply and I intend to do anything that I can to come out on the far side of that bell-curve; I also found the study that found people with heart failure often over estimate how long they have to go. I had asked a few medical people, found more than a few articles online that all said about the same thing. My chore had been to get my head around that notion, to accept what was and then to get on with my life.

As I wrote a week or so ago I had an appointment with someone who discovered that I have severe apnea, but that with treatment I can expect to add perhaps four years to this cruise that I am on. And one other thing, he now has probable cause for something that I had been told many times was idiopathic. Treatable and redeeming–quantity and quality.

In effect I have just have just been offered a doubling of my expectancy; this idea is taking a while to root in my cranium and germinate, but it will. There are events and situations all through life that cause feelings and attitudes; except that this business is different, what I am feeling and how I am seeing the world is not quite like any I have ever experienced. I am not ready to say that this is unique, it might just be a variation on one or more, I just can’t say yet.

Obviously I am happy with the news, I have long ago discarded any wish to be dead notions; have reached the conclusion that whatever pains and discomfort come along, no matter how intense, they cannot overwhelm that of being, of becoming. This new thing is a testimony to perseverance, to scratching at the tunnel face until the gold vein is completely discovered; and for that I am relieved, perhaps more than a bit smug. This that I have just received is a gift, more to God than from; but it is such an overwhelming gift that no words are appropriate. Perhaps it would be as if someone gave me a new car–then I see that it is a brand-new Rolls convertible; what the hell do you do with such a thing! A great problem to work at as I go on.

I may write more about this as I figure it out and believe it would be of interest to someone, anyone else. Let me add one more thing: To say that this is more a gift to God than from God is because I know that without man God is irrelevant; He is what we are about, that makes us what we are.

What was the question?

WHAT WAS THE QUESTION AGAIN?

I was feeling unsettled over something or other, and decided to drive over to Peet’s for a coffee; I don’t know what made me think of doing this, I have the same coffee at home, and the traffic on North Avenue is always to be avoided, especially on my day-off. There was nobody I knew at Peet’s, but there was a dozen people burbling on cell phones; I took my coffee and walked up past the Whole Foods store, questioning as I always did what it was that there business is about, it isn’t just good and pure food, we have always had sources for that, it is that they promise something else, something philosophical or spiritual and pseudo-scientific, I can’t put my finger on their message; but it certainly is successful, their message resonates, especially among a certain group. Could it be that people believe that if one ate just the right combination of foods there would be a special reward? That their food should be thought of as some sort of prescription that will ward off evil spirits and give eternal life; is this what Ponce De Leon had sought and never found?

I stopped in front of Transitions Bookstore , a “new age”café and store with a display of books and lecture announcements all of which seemed to be offering the one true answer, the one right path, the secret of the ages. If there was but one true answer, one great secret–why is it in any number of different books? Why isn’t it taught to every school child in the world? Why would the one important truth in life be limited to these “New York Times bestselling authors”?

I walked on through the stream of pedestrian robots with earpieces supplying the necessarily constant and deadening music, reminding me of Aldous Huxley. Next is this large store with a name that is made-up, selling makeup, that is successful, and not only with women. A lot of people paying a lot of money to pretend to not look or smell as they really do; factor that notion in if you can.

None of these observations are new, none are unique to me; but there is something more going on here, there is something behind all of this avoidance and denial.

In my work I occasionally drive people whose names are familiar, who employ people to make sure that their names and faces are familiar; I drive these people to a place, wait for them to do their thing, then drive them back to the other place. If it is a nice day I often stand outside the limousine and read a book while wait, or just stand and enjoy the passing parade; part of the parade is the awe that comes over people when they think they may be in the presence of someone famous; people who are famous for being famous.

I am far from the first person to witness and note this effect; but what is it that is going on here? How does this relate to what I was noticing at the mall.

The day after my walk through the mall on North Avenue I paid a visit to Bert in the home: He is looking even more drawn than before, I imagine the cancers in there doing their nasty work; the colors on his face and hands becoming more a patchwork of grays and whites, the food stains on his shirt more noticeable because he has just finished lunch, and more lunch is dropping from his slack mouth.

I say hello, he looks up into my eyes, after a few seconds there is a recognition, I say my name, he smiles and moves his hand in an attempt to raise it, I take hold of that cool hand, not too energetically or forcefully I give him a handshake. He is sitting in the hallway, there are about eight of them lined up in the hallway, all in wheelchairs; I pull up an empty chair in order to sit beside Bert. I ask that question that always makes me feel really stupid, I ask him how is it going? What kind of question is that to ask a dying man? What else is there to say? my options are limited here. He gives me a smile and says “oh, you know, it goes”. I ask if he is in pain, that is a required question, one that must be answered on the report form; no he is not in any pain—-good, very good.

There is one question that always brings a wry smile “well, what’s new at this place?” Boredom is the universal among the elderly and the dying, so I try and make some sort of joke about the obvious.

We sit for a while, I make my usual comment about watching the parade go by, I say it because it always makes us both smile. I ask what he had for lunch, less than an hour previous, he can’t remember; did his daughter visit on Sunday, he can’t remember. I sit, he sits, we sit, the lineup of wheelchairs sit in the hallway, near the nurses’ station where they can all be seen in a glance by the always busy nurses and aides.

I stay for about another fifteen minutes, it seems forever; there is nothing here other than hello, a few smiles, a waiting; I can’t stay there longer than that, it becomes pointless, it borders on being depressive, I feel out of place.

I fill out the necessary form, leave a copy on the nurses’ desk, say goodbye to Bert, then I say goodbye to a few others who have come to recognize me over time. One woman takes my hand and compliments me on my new hat, tells me it makes me look good, that she is glad that she got to see this great hat. There is a guy in one of those padded chair/beds that are used for people who have little or no control; I think that he is looking at me, I say hello, he makes a noise, I smile and then move on to the elevator.

On the ground floor, near the elevator, there is a drinking fountain where I always stop and take a long drink; there is something about spending time up there that makes me want to have a long drink of cool water. Then I leave, or do I escape?

My mind wants to make a connection between the questions raised at the mall and the experience of sitting with this dying man who is my good friend, who doesn’t know my name; there is something that is in the back of my mind, it is yelling something in my ear. I refuse to understand what it is that I am being told.

At the mall are offered answers to unasked questions, to made up questions, to stupid questions—–at the home there is no answer, no question, no worthy comment. There is just sitting in the hallway waiting.

I was about to make some comment on what other people are looking for, what is missing in their lives, what keeps them from being right here in the present and not in denial; then I realized that that would be going down the conservative way of blame and criticism, change direction. All that I observed and wrote down here is part of my trying to figure out what I am about, the only person of whom I have any knowledge or control. So what do I think that I am missing, what is absent from this life of mine, what answers will make it all right?

There is nothing missing.

This is it, complete and understandable.

If I sometimes forget this, remind me.

Why do I do it?

Several friends recently have suggested that visiting the old and the dying is something I do because I have a big heart, implying that I have more of something or other than anyone else:—that is going down the wrong road, it says something about where they are coming from, doesn’t say much about me. I began visiting the dying out of fear, a fear of mine that I would end up on a gurney, in a hallway at Cook County Hospital; that image scared the hell out of me for a long time.

I really don’t like living with fear, I have found that it isn’t a great diet, is a poor exercise companion, is an all around unpleasant thing to keep in my belly: so I decided to get rid of this big one. The best recipe for eliminating any kind of fear is, of course, to go right up to it, look it right in the eye, smell its breath, listen to it gasp; and then realize that it ain’t so scary after all, that fear evaporates, my stomach becomes unclenched, I can get on with other business. So, in order to get rid of that dying fear I took a close look at it, got as close to the experience as possible, and did it again, until that fear became a memory.

The reason I continue is the friendship I experience, friendship is a rare and valuable thing; especially one that has no agenda, no history, nothing to be gained or owed, there is just being there with someone, watching the parade go by.

I visit these people for selfish reasons, the best of selfish reasons, and I hope that I will continue to listen to my belly when it signals that fear has taken up residence, listen and go on from there.

Procrastination

I procrastinated writing today because I was trying to figure out what to say about something that was obvious and common: there is nothing to add to the description of what greed does to a person. Last night I drove someone whose being has been twisted because of greed, someone that we have been driving for a while, someone who I observe although he has no recollection of me. No one of any note, nor difference from many others. Three days ago I was sitting with Bert, sitting in the hallway of the convalescent home, sitting there without agenda. It was the contrast of these two situations that I thought I would write about, and now understand that there is nothing about greed that hasn’t been writ for millenia; and that greed is a boring subject.

What can be describe is this business of sitting with someone who is dying, who knows that I am with a hospice group, has agreed to have hospice assistance, who is doing what dying people do naturally.

Maybe absence of agenda is the core, no chore or topic that requires attention, maybe it is that absence that is special about this experience. I am not there with promise or requirement, there is no possibility of returning health, there are no battles to be fought, no love to win or lose, no need for obfuscation. It is being in its pure form: I think that the reason I do this is so that I can have this experience, know this rare feeling, share it with my good friend who doesn’t remember my name.

I realize that I could make a list of the greedy guy’s stuff, his airplane, ground vehicles, horses, hobbies, ownerships, estates, the pain he has caused to those close, to those who barely touch his sphere. I couldn’t make a list for Bert, I know of nothing, care not about any of it, there is no list nor agenda: there is just being in its pure form.

I don’t know if any of this is relevant to anyone else’s life, it isn’t the kind of experience I encounter with others, as I am out and about; I write it so that I understand better, and will use that understanding as I go on my way towards that end. That is the way I see it this morning.

There is nothing to write about the bird feeder, other than it is gone, an objection by the landlord, so it is now gone. The birds were fun while they were around, sadness that they are gone, and there will always be other things to fill their absence.

I finally bought a hat

The temperature is low this morning, -4°F, winds are expected to gust up to about 30 m.p.h. The sun is bright, the sky is a clear blue, the bulky sparrows wait their turn at the feeder.We like this “wind chill” business, it lets us feel that we endure Siberian and Shackleton brands of cold as we sit inside centrally heated houses, watching the meteorologist detail just how badly we have it. This is sort of like buying a shirt with your favorite player’s number on it. Our wind chill right now is -24°F.I have been outside when the thermometer reads -40°F, I was north of Cochrane, Ontario in late February. Cochrane is as far north as one can go by road in Ontario, from there I went by train north, towards James Bay, about half way up the line was a place called Coral Rapids, I don’t think that it exists anymore. That kind of cold is different, needs no wind to imprint its seriousness, it was just fucking deadly cold .After I arrived in Coral Rapids I was told by several people that if I was out walking and began to feel sleepy, that I should knock on the first door I saw, house or office, tell the person who came to the door that I was feeling sleepy, they would take care of me. The sign of hypothermia is sleepiness, the body shutting down to preserve energy; lay down in that fat snowdrift, have a bit of a nap, it doesn’t feel so bad now, just a nice sleep, that long, long sleep.So much for morbidity: The low sun angle makes a great picture of bronze birds, branches and feeder, shining surfaces and deep shadows contrast. I am being reminded that I sit in a sunporch that is open to the outside, underneath this thin floor. The bright sun in my eyes, the cold soles of my slippers makes for an interesting morning, but a short lived one, this will get old after a while.I was going to write another post about how to face whatever fearful thing is available, overcome it, accept it, move on kind of piece; but maybe I have done enough of them. The idea I was trying to get across has been said for several thousand years, my recent ruminations are enough for now.I have been playing at arranging in some sort of system how I experience and understand revelation and the spiritual life; without success. This is the most slippery chore I have ever come across, it explains why there are so few theologians who have anything important to say. I knew a woman who was working on her PhD. in theology at the U of C, the average time for someone with a M. A. to get a doctorate there, was 5 years, that is a long time to figure out the addition she could make to our knowledge of the divine. I think that she ended up doing some kind of women-in-religion kind of thing, not quite the divine; but I do remember knowing a few woman who took me to heaven and to hell.The coffee is just right this morning, I shut my eyes and face the sun after a swallow of strong, fresh brew; I feel the effects on my body, the caffeine doing that wonderful thing it does, the heat in my belly.

I did buy a hat yesterday, went into a Western wear store in my neighborhood; there were hundreds of hats, most of them too cowboy for me, but then I found the area of felt hats from fedora to rodeo styles. Of all the hats there were only two that were my size, both the same style, one black, one mink (brown). I have a big head. (Many have said that, but used different phrases to express their estimate.) Now I own a Resistol, 4/xxxx beaver, “self-conforming“; and I love it. I have just put it on as I sit here, tilted so that the sun is blocked, the edge of the brim is at the top of my vision, it feels good, and I expect it to feel even better as the years shape it to my cranium.

I feel sad because I am coming to an end of the kind of writing that I have been doing, don’t know what I will write tomorrow; what I was saying has become redundant. I could write on food and cooking, but there are a million writers of that; what there aren’t many of is people explaining what is going on when one prepares food. I found myself that if I know the why behind anything then I do it better, am freed from the mindlessness of recipes, perhaps there are some who would read that kind of thing.

I continue to feel good about my visit with Bert yesterday, the purity of his welcome & thanks, the freedom to say to him “my old friend”; between us there is no history, no agenda, no reserve nor embarrassment. It is an experience unlike any other, I am fortunate each time, with each person that this connection occurs.

My left hand, wrist and forearm are wrapped in Ace bandage this morning, sprained from a fall on the ice; this will be the end of typing today.

It’ll force me to focus on thinking what I might put down here tomorrow.

I finally bought a hat

The temperature is low this morning, -4°F, winds are expected to gust up to about 30 m.p.h. The sun is bright, the sky is a clear blue, the bulky sparrows wait their turn at the feeder.

We like this “wind chill” business, it lets us feel that we endure Siberian and Shackleton brands of cold as we sit inside centrally heated houses, watching the meteorologist detail just how badly we have it. This is sort of like buying a shirt with your favorite player’s number on it. Our wind chill right now is -24°F.

I have been outside when the thermometer reads -40°F, I was north of Cochrane, Ontario in late February. Cochrane is as far north as one can go by road in Ontario, from there I went by train north, towards James Bay, about half way up the line was a place called Coral Rapids, I don’t think that it exists anymore. That kind of cold is different, needs no wind to imprint its seriousness, it was just fucking deadly cold .

After I arrived in Coral Rapids I was told by several people that if I was out walking and began to feel sleepy, that I should knock on the first door I saw, house or office, tell the person who came to the door that I was feeling sleepy, they would take care of me. The sign of hypothermia is sleepiness, the body shutting down to preserve energy; lay down in that fat snowdrift, have a bit of a nap, it doesn’t feel so bad now, just a nice sleep, that long, long sleep.

So much for morbidity: The low sun angle makes a great picture of bronze birds, branches and feeder, shining surfaces and deep shadows contrast. I am being reminded that I sit in a sunporch that is open to the outside, underneath this thin floor. The bright sun in my eyes, the cold soles of my slippers makes for an interesting morning, but a short lived one, this will get old after a while.

I was going to write another post about how to face whatever fearful thing is available, overcome it, accept it, move on kind of piece; but maybe I have done enough of them. The idea I was trying to get across has been said for several thousand years, my recent ruminations are enough for now.

I have been playing at arranging in some sort of system how I experience and understand revelation and the spiritual life; without success. This is the most slippery chore I have ever come across, it explains why there are so few theologians who have anything important to say. I knew a woman who was working on her PhD. in theology at the U of C, the average time for someone with a M. A. to get a doctorate there, was 5 years, that is a long time to figure out the addition she could make to our knowledge of the divine. I think that she ended up doing some kind of women-in-religion kind of thing, not quite the divine; but I do remember knowing a few woman who took me to heaven and to hell.

The coffee is just right this morning, I shut my eyes and face the sun after a swallow of strong, fresh brew; I feel the effects on my body, the caffeine doing that wonderful thing it does, the heat in my belly.

I did buy a hat yesterday, went into a Western wear store in my neighborhood; there were hundreds of hats, most of them too cowboy for me, but then I found the area of felt hats from fedora to rodeo styles. Of all the hats there were only two that were my size, both the same style, one black, one mink (brown). I have a big head. (Many have said that, but used different phrases to express their estimate.) Now I own a Resistol, 4/xxxx beaver, “self-conforming“; and I love it. I have just put it on as I sit here, tilted so that the sun is blocked, the edge of the brim is at the top of my vision, it feels good, and I expect it to feel even better as the years shape it to my cranium.

I feel sad because I am coming to an end of the kind of writing that I have been doing, don’t know what I will write tomorrow; what I was saying has become redundant. I could write on food and cooking, but there are a million writers of that; what there aren’t many of is people explaining what is going on when one prepares food. I found myself that if I know the why behind anything then I do it better, am freed from the mindlessness of recipes, perhaps there are some who would read that kind of thing.

I continue to feel good about my visit with Bert yesterday, the purity of his welcome & thanks, the freedom to say to him “my old friend”; between us there is no history, no agenda, no reserve nor embarrassment. It is an experience unlike any other, I am fortunate each time, with each person that this connection occurs.

My left hand, wrist and forearm are wrapped in Ace bandage this morning, sprained from a fall on the ice; this will be the end of typing today.

It’ll force me to focus on thinking what I might put down here tomorrow.

So we’re having a bit of weather here

That first cup of coffee tasted especially good because of something I’ve just done; as I was filling the kettle I looked out the window and saw that the damned feeder was empty, a fact that I’d ignored when I went to work yesterday afternoon. It’s not a big deal, it isn’t that cold, I have time before coffee and breakfast, do I really believe that I am saving my flock from starvation? As I recognized each of those notions I was reaching for my jeans and an old pair of shoes to put on. We are in the midst of a winter storm, there is about 4 inches of snow on the porch and steps leading out back; I sweep the steps so that I don’t fall and break something, they’ll have to be cleaned at some time, might as well do it on the first trip; the snow drifts are mid-calf deep; I was without gloves because bare fingers are needed to remove the feeder from the shackle, and that infernal split-ring on the cotter-pin, those damned split-rings are a wonderful invention that is cursed by everyone who uses them, they never fail, there is no better alternative, and they are always a bugger to use. I opened the feeder, filled it to the top with seed, hung it back on the bracket, inserted the now wet cotter-pin, hoping that it wouldn’t slip and fall into the snow where it would sink deep, the split-ring is held between my lips because both hands are trying to hang the now full feeder, insert the pin, hold the tree branch down to a level where I can do all of this, and I do it, and I come back inside, and I take off my outer pants & shoes.

This coffee tastes very good, I made it strong this morning, the mug is warming my creaky cold fingers. No, I am not preserving the existence of the common sparrow, but it wouldn’t have been such a good cup of coffee if I was staring at an empty feeder.

The highway from the Loop to O’Hare is the JFK Expressway, it is about 17 miles downtown to the airport, last night it took 2-1/4 hours to do that 17 fuckin’ miles. I was to pick up one of our better known control-freaks, drive him to his home.

———–

There is a bright red cardinal out there! The first bird at the feeder this morning, he stands out like a spurt of blood on the snow, the always moving cardinal-red. Now he has flown away.

———-

I have known this passenger for 4 years, I can’t remember an easy trip in all that time; he needs to tell me what roads would be better tonight, how I should deal with the congestion, his plan for the fastest trip. But it ain’t that complicated. It’s down the Kennedy, exit to the east, a couple of miles farther and we’re there, this is not the Normandy invasion that we’re talkin’ about here–but it is tense because he needs to exercise control……… I get him home in about an hour, it would have taken 60 minutes the other way, his way took an hour. There is a winter storm; traffic is slow, slow for each one of us, slow for every one of us.

Sam’s daughter can’t accept that her father is dying, that he isn’t the same person that he was, that parts of him have gone before the rest of his body shuts down, part of who Sam was is no longer, that’s the way it goes; he can’t walk, he can’t remember, he can’t swallow liquids he is diapered.

She wants the medications changed, she questions the diagnoses of his doctors, has complaints about the nursing care; she wants to make her father what he was, or what he was in her memory; but her father is changing, her father is becoming something other than what he was; and here is an opportunity to share an epoch, this final chapter, to be there as he discovers what it is that death is about. There is no more natural act than dying, no more common, no more predictable, it defines who we are, it is necessary. Control is not appropriate here.

Enjoy may not be the proper word to describe that final act, but it isn’t the wrong one either. Beautiful isn’t often used here either, but there is a beauty and elegance in the way things are completed. Whatever the right words might be for this experience that Sam is having, it would be a better one if his daughter was going through it with him, not trying to control it, flail at what is in an attempt to postpone, to defy, to make it something that it is not; try-out the various words that describe the experience, find your own, share the experience, consider that what this is about is a gift, it is the final loving gesture, when one person can look straight at another, with no pretense, expectations, history, just being in that moment. Share it with your father, know unqualified love.

I overheard a couple of visitors sharing their expectations of cures, of the time when their husbands wouldn’t have whatever it is they have, they are living in the future fantasy; get whatever medical help you can for him, but no one avoids dying, don’t continue down the road of avoidance, it is a blind canyon that is a miserable route every step.

—————————

Flashing red has been gone for 20 minutes now, the fluttering brown commas are attacking the seed bin; on a whim they all fly into the bushes, on another whim they fly back, the flock is flying, fighting, living.

————————–

Our storm is expected to go on until early evening, with wind that makes and shapes drifts, I have told the dispatcher that I want to book-off today, he said he’ll see what he can do. I neglected to buy oranges yesterday, some fresh squeezed juice would taste pretty good right now; to get the newspaper I have to dress again, trudge through the drifts, trudge back; I could have gone and picked up the paper when I filled the feeder, but I forgot, when I go for the paper I might as well walk the couple of blocks to the store. And that’s the way it is this morning.

—-The cardinal has returned, one cardinal at a time is just right.

Saying goodbye gently

It was a good thing to do on the last day of the year, visit Bert in the nursing home on the day when the year is wrapped. Bert is wrapping his last chapter, though his memory is lessens he is coming to terms with it.

The city is quiet on this first morning, a couple of inches of snow and the general holiday combine on this blue-gray morning, a quiet, gentle morning.

Bert has both colon and bone cancer, he might also have lung and heart problems, is incontinent; the specifics of his condition are off limits to me a rule that doesn’t concern me. There is a scale they use to measure the level of life, 100 is someone who walks around and takes care of business unaided, 0 is dead, Bert was at 30 a couple of months ago, he has slipped since then. I probably wasn’t supposed to be told that, but what the hell.

He asked for a drink of water, butI am not allowed to give him one; all Ted’s liquids have to be thickened, thickener is added to his cup of water to prevent it going down the wrong way and choking him. Another reminder of his situation.

I have been told that bone cancer can be painful, and I ask Bert each time if he is in pain, he never is. Whatever drugs he is on seem to take care of the pain without making him drunk; but he is dying.

He is dying, there will be a time when I won’t visit him, that time isn’t far away. We had a nice visit, he thanked me for coming, couldn’t remember my name or if I had visited previously, a benign smile, maybe it was the medication, maybe it was the natural process of coming to terms with saying goodbye.

Goodbye is a quiet activity, it is the moments after the visitor’s car has left, the time when everyone has gone and the cleaning up is begun.

I did tell Bert a joke that made him laugh: “Bert I have a confession to make to you, sometimes I feel as if I am a lesbian trapped in a man’s body.” He got the joke immediately, the nurse who was nearby didn’t, she seemed uncomfortable hearing it; a dying man had a laugh, she might welcome that instead of acting otherwise.

I have shut the work radio off, bought groceries for a couple of days, sorting and put away clothes, papers, the empty box from the new tv, books and memories; putting on the shelf all those things that are not being used today. Playing a male Welsh choir recording, remembering my father’s memory of hearing the miners on their way to work before dawn, coming home after sunset, singing as they came and went in the dark, Sunday was their day off, the day to see the sun.

Saying goodbye is a quiet and gentle thing, but it brings great sadness, I am very sad this morning, and know that out of this sadness will come joy, later on today.

The day after visiting a dying man

I visited Bert yesterday, he was anxious and making a lot of noise. I sat with him for about half an hour, trying to have him focus on the present for a few minutes, to confront his fears even though his mind is deteriorating; just doing what a friend can do, offer help, sit for a while, let him know that he is not alone.

Visiting him will not change what is happening to Bert, it is the way of things that his mind breaks down and away; I must never believe that what I am doing will change anything, it is just to be with someone as they go. This isn’t easy to do.

The day after visiting someone who is dying I react with feelings of emptiness, helplessness, I scramble to make sense of something that has no more sense than is living and dying. Visiting a dying person is an intense experience, the next day is the reaction to that intensity.

As I was about to leave, thirty minutes was all I could take, he stopped his anxious rambling to take my hand and thank me for coming, to apologize again for not being all that he wished, he hoped that I would come back again, his smile was genuine. For that smile and recognition I felt joy, and there you are.

I am playing Bach’s ‘Art of the Fugue’, Glenn Gould at the organ and piano; if Bach and Gould cannot fill a mind and life that feels empty nothing can, this is rich stuff.

I am watching a man die

Bert is in a wheelchair, sitting on a pad that sends an alarm if he tries to stand, and occasionally he makes that effort, there is also an alarm that goes off when he comes close to an elevator door. He is set into that chair as a doll is set on a shelf, tucked back as far as possible to prevent him falling off the shelf, he tilts against the right arm of the chair, the effort of sitting upright is to much for his body, the wherewithal to sit straight and dignified has gone.disappeared, that blow to his dignity is sad.

But it is that his mind is leaving the stage that one most notices, that that makes a man human is going away, Bert knows it, he tells me it and I nod agreement. Again I see the frustration as what is left of a mind tries to formulate a sentence, tries to find a word that once was common to it, and now can’t be found; the mind that is left races about in a smaller and smaller area memories and vocabulary now forbidden in their disappearance, frustration gives way to anger, and who would blame him, who would deny him the anger over losing his humanity. The mind plays on a smaller and smaller field, looking to do what a mind does as the resources diminish daily.

I have watched an infant discover his first word, ‘ball’ is the entire universe, he repeats ‘ball’ and laughs each time, it is the laughter of creation, the child is creating a life, a universe, and right now the universe consists of ‘ball’ and ‘not ball’. Soon ‘chair’ will share that universe with ‘ball’ and ‘not ball’, there is laughter and the purest of joy with each step of creation.

It was written a long, long time ago that “In the beginning was the word”, and that is what can be seen in a child’s eyes; the mundane among us argue that ‘creation’ has to do with making stuff from non-stuff, and other stupidities; they can witness creation by sitting with a child as each new word makes his universe explode, with joy and laughter.

From what I know it seems that it took humans about 150,000 years to do words, to make the change from dumb animal to that that creates, a process anyone can witness while spending time with an infant.

Bert’s world, his universe, is collapsing, his creation is in reverse, and he knows it, every person I have known who is demented knows it, and the anger at its disappearance is entirely appropriate, I will be angry too.

Right now I am not angry, I was, but now I am sad, there will be other emotions, but right now I am sad to watch death overtake this mind, this universe;

just as I laughed with the baby as it experienced creation, I have a few tears as this universe diminishes.

Bert’s teeth don’t fit any more, there wouldn’t be much justification in having them redone to fit securely; Bert is sick, he is very sick and won’t be here much longer. As on every visit, his mind summons itself enough to look straight at me, as honest and deep a look as I have ever experienced, as he says ‘thank you’, ‘thank you for coming to see me’, and then I walk away.

It takes a lot from me when I sit and watch this new friend die, I have asked myself if there is anything I can do, the answer is that all I can do is sit beside him, touch his hand, and understand when he tells me that his mind is going, this takes a lot from me, I go home fatigued, will have strange dreams, will find myself in the middle of the night typing this story. I may now be the best friend he has in this world, yet he can’t remember my name, and I am not allowed to display my last name.

The people whose jobs are to take care of the dying grow a callous that is obvious, they are kind and considerate, there is no cruelty, but there is an absence of connection, they have a job to do, and to do it again, and again, and to rejuvenate themselves enough in order to do it again tomorrow. I see this on nurses and aides, on administrators and pastors; at first this callousness made me angry, until I realized that if they were to explore dying with each one of their patients it would destroy them. It is for a volunteer, one without an agenda, to occasionally sit and explore dying with the Berts and Marys. If I ever see that I am growing such a callous I will stop doing what I do.