Where Did I Go?

Look. See. Who is that, there?

Silver reflections of who I was, then.

When I looked like, me, or what I thought was me.

See, past the wrinkles, drooping jowls, baldness, sadness.

Way back then, way past forgotten memories,

Glum glimmers of almost beauty, almost hope, way back

To naivety, back in among the fears, the grave, puzzled, perplexed

Apprehension of long-ago youth.

I almost forget those days, but then, like now,

I remember

That I have forgotten so much when

 I see

That look.

The reflection, the silver reflection, looking at me, pleading,

Where did I go, where was the intersection on that lonely

Country road when I took the other path, the path

Curved, and bent, that lent shadows to such a bright day?

That led me away to somewhere else, a different me,

A stranger somehow, now looking out

From the mirror, my mirror, of

Who I was, where I was going, then, finally, finding me

Here?

When.

When a stranger looks at me and says,

“I have a tumor on my brain.”

When a friend cries, looking up from his bed,

“I will not see you again.”

When my doctor whispers to me from the operating table,

“We’ll have to see. Your prognosis is debatable.”

Only then do I begin my long inward journey into innermost

Dread, realizing I, too, must learn for myself what

It means for me, to be finally, permanently dead.

 

I’ve lived a long time, longer than most, been a host

To the terrors and triumphs, greedily eating my days

As if my cupboard overflowed, not realizing that one day

I would peer in and see dust and ashes of an emptiness

I only dreamed, riding nightmares of  denied finality.

 

But life, indeed, is real. And death, as well. One often comes to

A stop, before we learn how to really count this instant,

This minute, this day; not just the birthdays, not plan someday

To live, to be happy, to become a hero, to be remembered. 

But to live, now, now, now in this chaos of not knowing.

 

Do it, now. This instant. Be here, be present, ready to

Realize this one moment, this one hour, this one beautiful,

Bountiful day. This is

All there is. And this is

Enough.

 

So, when the doctor finally calls, and says,

“I’m happy to report that your prognosis is

Fine. You are

Clear. There is no

Cancer. No cancer. No cancer. You will

Live.”        

 

Now I can give myself the permission which I have never given

Myself. Yes, I can be alive. I can be the

Person who I always wanted to be. I am. I am

Me. Now. And that is good enough.

 

Time did not stop. It need not stop

Now. Maybe now I can finally begin

Living. I do have enough time, even if it is a just

A moment more. This is my only chore. To live,

Now.

 

When I look at myself again.

When I ask myself, “Do I have enough

Time? 

Am I good enough, just

As I am?

         Do you love me? Do I

                  Love me?

         Am I

                  Happy?

         Am I

                   Enough?

 

         Will I Reply:

                  “Just enough ?”

 

No.

“More than

Enough;

 

         Now.”

          * * * 

Denying The Inevitable

         “The hair on my head is leaving me, turning white with fear,

abandoning me bald and bereft, like rats on a sinking ship.”

 

Do I sound depressed, distraught, uncharacteristically negative? Probably. This is the day of the dreaded prostate biopsy; revelation and consequences, the lady or the tiger. The moment of truth.

We all expect to live forever, to deny the death that happens to other less fortunate folks. We will remain healthy, happy, pain-free, free from John Wayne’s “the Big ‘C’, the unmentionable, sly, evasive, nasty little bit of metastasizing catastrophe which people whisper about with averted eyes, and which fills the local newspaper’s obituary page with little paragraphs and out-of-date photos of lost strangers’ ragged endings of life.

But for me, dear Horatio, I was expecting a happier ending to my play, this dizzying performance under the spotlights, in spite of the man behind the scrim whispering “elevated PSL’s”. How will this drama play out on the operating table today? Will the hero have a happy-ever-after epilogue? Will there be another act? And for how long? And what does it all mean anyway?

 

                  * * *

An 8AM Wake-Up Call

         Eight oh two on a Monday morning. Should have been up at 6:30, 7:30, but, what the hell, you’re only old once. Having sweet comfort time with my wife, not quite awake, I let the answering machine pick up.

         Later, satisfied and ready for the day, I check my messages. My primary doctor’s assistant has called, telling me that my PSA blood test, part of my annual physical at age 75, has indicated higher than normal levels.

         What does this mean? A false positive, which is possible, meaning I can go on with my life, hoping to beat my not-very-enlightened Dad who died at ninety three. I can do better than that, can ‘t I? But, if it’s serious, what then? Prostate cancer, a horrible end of life with chemo and other awful cures which never cure but just prolong the pain and distress and angst for us unfortunates who don’t believe in a jolly old Father who is going to give us a big smooch and sit us on his right hand next to another unfortunate Son.

         What do I do now? My urologist, who is so busy with other unfortunates who may or may not have received a false positive or the dreaded positive/positive, he won’t see me in weeks. What do I do now, in the mean time, the in-between time, and every minute until then, whenever that is, when he declares in his coolly objective scientific apotheosis, whether I live more precious years to learn what life is all about, or I die, not knowing , not living fully, joyfully, to a better ultimate, more romantic finality.

         Which, of course, is my plan, so I can continue to tell you how a Diary of a Dying Man should be written. After all, this “life” should be more dramatic, more measured, more literary. Isn’t that what our golden old age, the ideal older, better last part of life, should be? Shouldn’t we at least deserve that, after all we have gone through?

Who Do We Think We Are?

“We shall not cease from exploration

         And the end of all our exploring

         Will be to arrive where we started

         And know the place for the first time.

         Through the unknown, remembered gate

         When the last of earth left to discover

         Is that which was the beginning –

         And all shall be well and

         All manner of things shall be well

         When the tongues of flame are in-folded

         Into the crowned knot of fire

         And the fire and the rose are one.

                  T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding V

 

         Five percent of all the world’s wildlife lives on the island of Madagascar. Eighty percent of that wildlife is unique to this island that was separated from Africa and India hundreds of millions of years ago. Many of these most beautiful, exotic, wonderful, colorful creatures -- mammals, insects, reptiles, and birds   -- may become extinct in the next ten or twenty years because of human encroachment of their precious and equally rare habitat.

We humans, uniquely self-referential, so sophisticated and self-important, feel justified in over-running and over-consuming, causing other species to become extinct; we do it repeatedly without a second thought. In reality, we have no more intelligence and ability to achieve great things than the graceful fish who find their way back to their  river spawning grounds after years at sea, or the tiny hummingbirds that winter thousands of miles away from their summer homes, then return again and again.

         As I search for the answer to why we, the human species, are here, I have come to a realization: we humans are a biological anomaly.        

We humans think that we were created by a God in his own image, destined to have dominion over all the earth. And look at the mess we have made of it!

          This forces a thinking person to realize that no omniscient God would be so thoughtless to put humans in charge of this earth, and observe them doing such a terrible job of caring for it. In my adventure to learn who I am and why I am here, I  am forced to realize that not only is there no God, but also humans are not any more intelligent than any other creature. What animal would mess up its own nest to the point of bringing on its own extinction? Perhaps that extinction would be a great relief to the remaining creatures on this tortured planet, who have still managed to survive our self-absorbed, drunken, brainless, trashing of our Earth.

         We are indeed a biological anomaly. We have evolved by growing a large, very sophisticated brain which allows us to do many mechanical tasks, but we have not evolved one whit from our most ancient beginnings in regard to morality, compassion and sharing.

All I can do in my advanced age is to try to not make a bigger mess than I already have. I pledge, in my final years, to do as little harm as possible. 

6/2/08 Diary of a Dying Man

The Existential Alternative?

Existentialism, as defined by Bertrand Russell, philosopher and mathematician, postulates “That Man is the product of causes which had no provision of the end they were achieving … the whole temple of Man’s achievement must inevitably be buried beneath debris of a universe in ruins … only on the firm foundation of unyielding despair, can the soul’s habitation henceforth be safely built.”

Can I find reasons in my own life to create an opposing philosophy to this very popular existential stance – a philosophy not of despair, but of hope; not a dead end of resignation, but an avenue for a new adventure in life and death? The God-based myths of Christianity and other major world religions, and the pantheons of ancient Greece and even present day India, hold little value in our modern scientifically intelligent world.

So, what else can there be in our history of myths and revelations that can try to explain who we are and why we’re here?

In my explorations, I have recently discovered the beginning of a new myth system, a myth created not by story-teller historians and desert-crazed prophets, but by modern-day scientists. A book, “The View from the Center of the Universe,” by Joel R. Primack and Nancy Ellen Abrams, propose a new way to find our own heaven, right here, right now.

Their definition of the concept of “God” is represented by our physical universe, which is ever-expanding; we, and everything else, are in the inside, in the middle of it all, expanding with it. “God” represents the dynamic directions of our earthly wonder, not the ancient destination of a fragile hope and fear-based heaven.

As our universal “God” expands, our understanding also deepens at all levels, just as we understand gravity though Einstein’s discoveries. Therefore, “God” is nothing less than the process of opening up our personal lives into developing lines of contact with the unknown potential of the universe. We, as humans, now have evolved into the understanding that we can, and must, find harmony with the real universe of which we are an integral part.

We must create a philosophy opposing the philosophy of existentialism; not registering futility, but knowing hope; not accepting pre-ordained suffering, but expecting excitement and promise.

By beginning to celebrate the reality of ourselves and our expanding universe, and by resetting our mental focus into harmony with it, we may realize the greatest opportunity of our time and all time. The choice between existential woe and a meaningful world view is open to us. We owe it to those who come after us to protect our own fragile environment, our little part of the universe, where everything is interconnected, where it is a fact of life and death that we are all dependent upon each other. We are made of the same stardust as is every star and planet in this amazing expanding universe. We either expand our thinking, our sense of morality and responsibility to everyone and everything, or by the laws of chaos and evolution, we die and the universe continues without us.

In the ever-lessening moments I have left on this wonderful earth, I vow to work at creating within myself and, acting in accordance with, this new myth of “God” as universe. This is an authentic spiritual imperative –- a new, renewing myth created by the proven facts of science which I intend to nurture and support – a universal heritage which is within myself and every person, creature, plant and planet that surrounds me.

5/1/08 Diary of a Dying Man

I love painting portraits of myself. My first, very realistic, shows a youngish, handsome, self-possessed 63 year-old. In the 12 years since then, I look in the mirror and see less hair, more of what’s left grey, sagging skin on the cheeks and chin, an older – some would say old – man. In the first portrait, the brown eyes flash with hope and vigor in the flecks of white reflected in the painted pupils. Today, the bathroom glass reveals less hope in the eyes, a little more sadness; I see time lines on my face, an eroded hillside, tumbling down to the softening under my manly chin and a slowly inflating spare tire around my waist.

The Portrait of Dorian Grey has nothing on me. Time does indeed take its toll. Flesh and spirits sag as youthful, even middle-aged dreams, never quite meet today’s expectations.

But that’s not really the problem, is it? What is there to hope for, to work for, to dream for in these later years? After all, my life, your life, is one race that we can never win. We all lose in the end, giving over to aging, failed expectations, and the inability to really define what the prize should be. At the end, our end, there is no evading the final goal, debilitation, maybe despair, and death.

What should old age be, what can I reasonably expect? Maybe that’s why I now paint my self-portraits as caricatures (intuitive truthfulness?), the aging, frightened, confused old fart. A nice old guy, maybe, but someone to be smiled at, conveniently ignored, maybe pitied, quickly forgotten? Do they see me as just another old clown prancing on his grave, trying to hum a tune he has already forgotten?

What am I looking for as I search this stranger’s face in my mirror???

4/12/08: Diary of a Dying Man

On April 12, 2008 to my amazement, I have achieved the age of 75 years. The Bible, Psalms 90:10, declares: “The days of our years are threescore and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.”

I have beaten God’s prediction by 5 years and am still going strong. Today, modern science and the drug companies predict that we may be able to live to 110 years or longer. I ask myself, “But is it worth it?” Maybe “flying away” would be the best termination after a full lifetime of experiencing the best and the worst of what life has to offer.

I was almost killed twice as a small child because of sexual abuse. I survived hurricanes and seasickness in the U.S. Navy. My leg experienced 15 stitches from a chainsaw. I was divorced once and then experienced bliss as I took the marital step one more time. I’m still healthy, reasonably happy, but what have I learned as a Wisconsin farm boy, an afraid of the water sailor, a jack of all trades, reasonably intelligent male who was everything from a truck driver, forest fire fighter, ad man, author, poet, hospice volunteer, painter/potter/sculptor, an assisted suicide team member?

What does it all mean? Who am I and why am I now 75 years old? Am I another one of you who may have a day, a month, a year, or a decade or more left on this troubled old earth?

At this moment, my present hospice client, a 62 year old man who is in the final stages of dying of colon cancer, asked me, “ Why? Why me? Why, at this age? Why, when I came here to this godforsaken, always raining Oregon to care for my dying mother? Now, I’m dying before her. Why me? It’s not fair. What have I done to deserve this?”

He told me his story, his life story, 62 years of it. But somehow, it didn’t add up to much. Why was he put on this earth if it didn’t add up to much? And now, to suffer like this? His skin and eyes turning pumpkin yellow as the cancer eats his liver. He didn’t even make the bible’s three score and ten. Now he had to fly away; but to where, and would it be any better there?

So, I’m asking myself now; “OK, mister 75 year old smarty pants, what about you? What are you going to do with the rest of this ever-shortening end of your life?” My first best friend, Hawk, died at age 20; my next best friend, Dick, died at age 56; my next best friend, Alden, died at 62; my next best friend … and all of those other friends from grade school, college, the Navy, the ad guys, my running buds who were supposed to live forever … my God, I’m running out of best friends!

Every friend is a story. Each of our own lives is a story – or is it only a dream? Are all of our lives just dreams, to fade away after we awake (or die). And then what?

Wow, this is serious territory I have gotten myself into. Maybe I should start keeping a diary of these last days and weeks I find myself receiving, these gifts of moments precious which are given to me long after so many of my friends and hospice clients have already flown away?

Whoever you are who have discovered this blog, like a note in a bottle bobbing in the sea of errant electronics, stand by for the next installment of this Diary of a Dying Man. Maybe we can figure this out together. …