In Limbo
"Friends were beginning their exodus to distant places . . . it meant
appraising my own life and facing, time after time, the stagnation
which it represented."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
In Limbo
April 1, 1983... There is something left to be desired about living in
a state which can be described as "limbo." I am neither happy nor
unhappy. I cannot plan, because planning would only dig my sense of
"loss" to a deeper level. I am unable to live my life in the ways in
which I like for fear of ruining the Alivizatos miracle cure and
because of my general lack of energy. I think I can do something but
when I actually try, it fizzles into dust; I haven't the energy.
I sometimes feel a world apart from all else... in Greece I lost my
zest... or what zest I ever had... for living (in my sense of the
word). Perhaps I can look forward to normalcy only after the six months
period has come to an end. At least then I'll know my verdict. . .
as I had before I went to Greece.
June 26, 1983... Today the bomb blew up that was ticking in my brain.
I guess one might say that emotional explosions are a rarity in my
case, however, I am lucky enough to realize when I've reached the point
of mental saturation. It seemed of late, that all I heard were
complaints and conversations necessitating an obligatory response
of heartfelt sympathy.
I should never expect less than the truth when I ask "How are you?"
There is then a symphony of habitual ailments; I receive quite an
ear-full and the health report is consistently poor.
The next uplifting conversation was with Max, the master of
personality, and a virtual ball of fire, (I jest, of course). His
lamentations include numerous health difficulties, among them his
artificial limb. Undoubtedly he is far worse off, in my opinion,
than I.
However, I don't relish conversations riddled with bits and pieces of
Greek reminiscences; I prefer to forget the entire affair. Moreover,
I battle to maintain somewhat of a conversation. . . silence can only
last so long before I become unsettled and feel nervous tremors pacing
through my stomach. I am thoroughly exhausted once I am home. I am so
tired of sob stories; they are no longer any good with me. I wonder if
I lack tolerance for people who eternally lament their personal
plights. Others also have problems, but muffle them to a far greater
degree. Life's too short to taint other's lives with one's own
depressions and sorrows; talk but do not burden! Perhaps, also, I have
no sympathy for people who completely deny death and cannot accept it
as a normal part of the life cycle itself. I hope my mind can now
relax... I have twice today relieved it's pressure. I can now, with
luck, bid my senses goodnight.
August, 1983... Is there really any sense to my life anymore?
Sometimes I hate my life. I seem to be going nowhere... my pendulum
has come to a slow stand-still. It seems that all the progress I had
made 2 years ago has left me empty-handed and stripped once more.
Selfworth is altogether laughable in context with my life. What, after
all, is my purpose for being here? I do no more than spend other's
money, take up space and burden my family with my lack of physical
attributes. I feel that I could hold no job. . . I sometimes spend
hours in one day running to the toilet. After eating, I always run the
risk of feeling enormously nauseous for the duration of several hours.
And stamina? Sometimes I have it, sometimes I don't.
Marriage? Who and how? At times I can barely take care of myself.
Kids would be unthinkable, for reasons of conception as well as taking
good care of them. What would you do while you were afflicted by runny
bowels? And as far as a husband goes, he wouldn't exactly be getting
"prime stuff." I'm a sight to look at... the type of body that
deserves a full wardrobe at all times.
I don't understand why my cancer has to grow so slowly. Life can be
such a burden. Some days I feel as if I've done nothing except eat,
sleep and feel sick. And yet I feel guilty for not "pulling my weight."
I don't want to be a chronic complainer and ailing 'til death bids me
depart. I feel like a pussyfoot. . . I need ice or I'll overheat or
sweat; I have my personal air-conditioner so I can survive the summer
headache free. Sometimes I can't do much in the physical sense, and I
feel as if my body is going to the dump. I have a whole sack or two in
the cubbyhole filled with slacks and jeans that my ego will not allow me
to throw away. False hopes still contemplate "recovery" in a bland
sort of way. I suppose with all sincerity, however, that such luck is
not to be mine. In all likelihood, I'll live to a ripe old age
carrying an overgrown watermelon in my stomach, only to die by some
freak car accident. Dream on, Laurie, for dreams carry no malignancy;
dreams can be kept alive or brought to nonexistence as the individual
mind sees fit. They can nurture or destroy the dreamer simply by his
own desires.
Wisdom comes to an abrupt halt when one's ego considers himself to be
entirely wise. The casual admittance of one's own ignorance, however,
carries the implications of true wisdom and intelligence.
Nor do the wise mock the ignorant, for wisdom is a learned state,
forever questioning and forever growing. The wisest of all human beings
initially possessed a child's mind.
How happy I am that I do not feel compelled to uphold an image of a
person I desire to be. Life, already appreciably complicated, need not
also pressure one to act out the role of a personage whose standards
are determined by a certain group in society. I find utter humor in
watching the "necessary" actions of certain people, such as businessmen
in suited attire and professors with their obligatory beards and pipes.
I sometimes wonder if they would continue their hopeless charade
if they knew how comical they appeared to an impartial onlooker.
Even as a child I found it horribly ridiculous to do things solely to
please others. The "others," as it is, could care less for you as an
individual anyway. I felt as if I was not only cheating myself, but my
true friends also, if I was any less than my true self. I remember
observing in agitated silence as fellow students would deliberately
trod on the less popular children to somehow augment their low sense
of esteem. Though I was seldom bothered by their childish mockery, I
pitied the hapless recipients of their relentless derision and marveled
at the insensitive cruelty of their incessant gestures and remarks.
This, I suppose, led me to believe that man is not intrinsically good,
and that goodness is learned only as the result of the societal necessity
to survive. If not for this stark realization, I truly wonder what
would become of man as a whole. Would he be reduced to canine
barbarism or would there still be certain bands of people who would
break from this sheerly animalistic behavior to nurture a livable form
of existence, complete with an intricate set of moral ethics?
As seen in my entries following the Grecian trip, I became depressed
and frustrated as a rejoinder to the special diet. I felt constrained
by hope, not freed by it, and was deeply relieved when six months had
passed, for then I was able to return to what I had come to know as
"normal." It was obvious that the Greek doctor had done nothing to
cure my ailment, for the cancer continued its growth, manifested in my
shrinking wardrobe vs. an increasing waistline. Because the waiting
was over, there was no need to spend more of my precious time engaged
in obligatory hope. I would forge onward. . . and forget the cures.
If nothing else, the Greek diet developed an interest in food and its
preparation. Indeed, I was so obsessed with food that I was plagued
by it; if a diet is so rigorous that it demands constant awareness to
succeed, I believe that success is far more difficult to attain.
Throughout the weeks of the diet, I baked with incomparable zest and
learned a wealth of information about cooking. Bread baking was edible
chemistry; it became easy to respect chefs and their tempting creations
as I paged through cookbooks. In no time at all, I had a hobby which
extended beyond the need to make natural food as specified by
the doctor.
One slightly irregular recipe came to me through a book by Euell
Gibbons; Violet Jelly. Yes, flower preserves. I'll never forget the
day Norm and I went to the park and I picked a quart of violet
blossoms. To be honest, I tried it to see for myself whether the jelly
was as exquisite as he claimed. It was a lovely lavender flavored ever
so delicately. . . and not objectionable to the palate.
Baking was not my sole enjoyment, of course. I loved to photograph
wildlife and create still-life compositions. . . I enjoyed dining out
and traveling to places both foreign and familiar. . . shopping was
always a pleasure, with or without money... and the library, with its
hint of musty volumes and quiet dignity, was also a favorite haunt.
It was easy to be interested in many things, despite the fact that
my plans often failed to cooperate with my bodily functions.
August 29, 1983... I have spent a good deal of time tonight feeling
sick. For a while there I was really beginning to wonder if my
Nutregrain would make a debut appearance in my clean toilet bowl
(it didn't) so I will leave further writing for tomorrow.
It is now 1:00 A.M.
I was used to feeling sick. Actually, I had forgotten what it was like
to experience true health; stomach and intestinal difficulties had
become a way of life. As time passed, however, I could not deny the
damage that cancer progressively wrought upon my strength and general
capabilities. Daily walks ceased after bowel complications (i.e., the
immediate need for a bathroom) over-shadowed the enjoyment of the walk
itself. Stress due to heat was also a great enemy that followed and
preceded every outing or event, and between the two impairments, I grew
increasingly more reluctant to pursue activities; I had to weigh the
importance of the activity against the possible complications that
might arise and thus spoil the engagement altogether. No longer could
I say "yes" without mental hesitation; simple activities were not
simple any more.
The summer of 1983 was hot beyond belief; with record high temperatures
throughout, it was determined that life would be much more livable if I
could have an air conditioner in my room. Shortly thereafter, another
was procured for use in the basement's T.V. room, which afforded me a
higher level of mobility. My family enjoyed the cool air so much that
a third air conditioner was installed. Even my dad found a place in
his heart for the electrical marvels and, I believe, appreciated them
more than he would have cared to admit. A diary entry read:
August 29, 1983... I think Dad held out on buying A/C so long because
he liked the idea he could take it.
Under the same principle, perhaps, was his derision toward mosquito
repellant. Dad withstood bugs with an air of stoicism that bordered
hard core.
Despite the heat, I managed to take several excursions through the
summer. The first and longest was to California, where I helped a
friend settle into an apartment before embarking upon a career. Many
friends were beginning their exodus to distant places and it was fun
to see where they would be located. . . even when it meant appraising
my own life and facing, time after time, the stagnation which it
represented.
Norm and I took our fourth annual trip to the Rockies during the
tourist season's heaviest crowds, yet we were lucky enough to stumble
upon and catch a cabin that had been dumped by previous patrons. We
determined that Marion's establishment had certain irregularities
which, despite its underlying personality, we desired to forego; after
all, a basement unit with no scenic views or T.V. reception was rather
dreary on a rainy day.
As my health had begun to fail, I was obliged to remain near the more
populous areas of the park while Norm hiked to his satisfaction. It
was not the same as the former trips for that reason, but I loved the
mountains, nevertheless, and loved the fact that I still had the
ability to see beauty in life when my own was not ideal. I focused
myself on thought and photography, instead of those aspects of living
which no longer remained within my physical grasp.
For years we had spoken of renting mopeds to scour an area of the
mountains; so it was that we decided to break down and seek out the
adventure. What fun it was! At a maximum speed of 45 mph I felt as if
I was traveling at a tremendous pace. More humorous than thrilling,
however, was the way I passed Norm on the hills; he appeared to be
standing still, his bulky coat billowing in the brisk morning air. The
trek had been a product of procrastination for three years; when we
removed ourselves from the seats and turned in the mopeds, we were glad
that we had finally put forth the effort and money to try something new.
It was an indelible memory; it was also a memory that would never
repeat itself except in dreams. Later I realized how fortunate I had been
to capture the moment and make the memory; certain experiences are given
only one chance.
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