One of These Days

The line, that pesky line, between “healthy” and “unhealthy” is amazingly thin. One minute, there you are...feeling fine and as if the world is mostly working. The next, a complete reversal of fortune strikes and you’re hanging on for dear life.

I was reminded of this again this week when, on Thursday night, in the middle of the night, about 2:00 a.m., I awoke with a blazing attack of sciatica. Of the constellation of body aches and pains I typically deal with, this is not one of them. So the whole episode was a very big surprise.

I eased out of bed in a pain-induced haze to try and figure what was going on, and practically fell flat on my face – as the left leg and hip would not tolerate any weight at all (without a pain level high enough to bring me close to unconsciousness). I may have screamed, I can’t actually remember. Surely inside my head I was screaming: what the fuck is going on here?!??

I had to go to the bathroom, so I gingerly, ever-so-slowly-and-agonizingly, made my way there to do my business. And, then back to bed. There wasn’t even a hint of this problem during the day or evening on Thursday. Yet, here I was...thinking about an emergency-room visit (not likely: I couldn’t possibly drive), or cortisone shots, or back surgery. Anything to rid me of this curse.

The next time I had to get up, I made my way to the computer and sent an email to my Feldenkrais practitioner to see if she had time to see me on Friday. I knew I wasn’t going to be making it into work in this kind of condition.

Before 7:00 a.m., she had replied, saying that I could come in at 4:00 p.m.. I took the day off, improving enough during the day so that I could actually make the drive to her office. And, as I sit here in Starbucks on Sunday afternoon writing this, I feel mostly “normal” again. Although during the night Friday night, and then again last night, the mere act of lying down in bed aggravated the condition. I’m fairly sleep-deprived at this point, but mostly pain-free.

But, I’m still thinking about that line and how quickly I’d slipped over it.

And, I’m pondering the chronic-pain-filled life of Amy Silverstein. I just this week finished reading her memoir entitled Sick Girl. In this excellent work of autobiography, Silverstein relates the story of her heart-disease diagnosis at age 24 that led, very swiftly, to a heart transplant. This is an eye-opening tale of what the life of a transplant patient is like after the operation. It’s truly not pretty, what with the twice-daily doses of obnoxious medicine that’s needed to fight organ rejection as well as the constant, unrelenting feeling of having something foreign in your body: and of never feeling good, right or normal again. Surprisingly, she’s survived this way for over twenty years now (despite being told that the heart would likely last ten).

At one point, Silverstein makes the observation that, sooner or later, we all face death and dying, and, for many, there’s the possibility of long-term illness along the way. She suggests that the longer we can live without having to face a life-threatening disease, the luckier we are.

And she’s probably right.

For my part, through all my issues with chronic pain, during the past few years especially, I have been pretty lucky. Nothing I’ve had has been essentially life threatening. And I’ve been incredibly successful in healing myself enough to function, these days, more-or-less, normally.

Nobody gets out alive, though. Nobody. And my anxiety level is raised lately with the prospect that I’ll be faced with a prostate biopsy in a couple of months. But, in the aftermath of a rather brief bout with sciatica, and knowing the first-hand experience of a heart-transplant patient, I feel fortunate. We’ll see how long my luck holds out, however. When is it going to be my time?

One of these days.

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Soundtrack Suggestion

Well that’ll be the day when you say goodbye
Yeah, yes that’ll be the day when you make me cry 
You say you’re gonna leave me, you know it’s a lie 
’Cause that'll be the day when I die.

(“That’ll Be The Day” – Buddy Holly)

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Timing is Everything

I went to the movies a couple of days ago, and chose to see “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.” This is a work adapted from a 1921 short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, with the screenplay written by Eric Roth (who also wrote “Forrest Gump” - a fact that has prompted several comparisons between the two tales). The film stars Brad Pitt in the title role, with Cate Blanchett (“Daisy”) as the female lead and primary love interest of Benjamin. The film was directed by David Fincher (“Fight Club;” “The Game”).

Despite the comparisons with Forrest Gump, however, I suggest that “Benjamin” is really a meeting of “The Bridges of Madison County” and “The Time Traveler’s Wife.” As in these works, “Benjamin” is, first and foremost, a love story between two people who are doomed in their pursuit of being together long-term. The first comparison works for me because of the initial set-up: stories of relationships disclosed by a senior near death (“Benjamin”) or from beyond the grave (“Bridges”). “Bridges” is also a tale of two people who love each other deeply, yet only have four days really together. Additionally, a sense of fantasy and whimsy with regard to time are pervasive in both “Time Traveler” and “Benjamin.” And, it’s because of the twisted nature of time in both stories that the couples are not able to spend their lives with each other.

The essential premise of the film is that Benjamin is an old man when he is born (shriveled up, suffering from many of the infirmities of old age) and ages backwards until he dies as a dementia-ridden infant. It’s a cradle-to-grave story that stretches one’s imagination, I admit. But the story is told so lovingly, and with such imaginative special effects, that this suspension of reality, for me, for awhile, was entirely successful. Film critic Roger Ebert, interestingly, disagrees. He says:

[“Benjamin”] tells the story of a man who is old when he is born and an infant when he dies. All those around him, everyone he knows and loves, grow older in the usual way, and he passes them on the way down. As I watched the film, I became consumed by a conviction that this was simply wrong.

Well, Roger: I’m so sorry. You’re the one who is wrong. This entire film works, as it eloquently tells a (gut-wrenchingly moving) story of undying love between these two people.

As Benjamin lives his life, first as a young, old man, he meets the granddaughter of one of the residents of the “home” he lives in. He is immediately taken with her, but while Daisy looks her actual childhood age (of course), Benjamin appears to be in his 70s (or so). As the story unfolds, Daisy and Benjamin meet again and again, but never when it is really “age appropriate” or convenient...until, finally, in middle age, they are able to be together. And their love for each other can be mutually acknowledged and consummated.

Their coming together seems to take an eternity (in years, and surely in movie minutes), but appears to be nothing short of pre-destined. Their time as a couple is blissful, intense, and oh-so-short. The period during which they were actually able to share their lives, for me, demonstrates a model for what true love can be. Each revels in the other, and they want nothing more out of life than the relationship (...the words, when they come, that Daisy utters to Benjamin: “my love for you is everything to me”...are supremely poignant).

In the end, though, being with each other becomes impossible. Benjamin keeps getting younger, Daisy older. After their child is born and has had her first birthday, Benjamin leaves. Both of them are in love with each other forever, and yet, in a reflection of the basic unfairness of life, are only able to be together for a short time.

So. Entirely. Sad.

And, yet, perhaps, a lot like how life really is. Whether you’re living it forwards or backwards.

This is not really a “feel-good” movie. However, unless you’re made out of hardened steel, this is a movie that will make you feel. I recommend it. Go see it. Go feel it. 

Luck and Courage

I read both fiction and nonfiction. I love to escape into stories, made-up or real-life. I’m particularly a fan of the memoir (which really should come as no surprise given that a lot of these “musings” are intensely autobiographical in nature). So, here I am to report that I’ve just finished reading a particularly compelling one (memoir, that is).

I became acquainted with author Alice Sebold when I read her first novel The Lovely Bones. Although the book, a bestseller, was published in 2002, I probably picked it up around 2005 or so. Bones is the tale of a 14-year-old girl who has been raped and murdered – and who narrates the entire story from her vantage point beyond the grave: in heaven.

I remember thinking: this is an interesting approach.

For whatever reason, I found this novel to be totally intriguing: though certainly in a dark way. The book was anything but a “quick-read” for me.

On a trip to our local Borders store, just recently, I discovered that Sebold had written another book prior to Bones. In 1999, she published a memoir entitled Lucky (as in “lucky to be alive”). This work is a first-person account of her rape: a tragic event that happened on the last day of her freshman year at Syracuse University. The story includes a chronicle of her eventual identification (a few months later) of the rapist; the subsequent trial and conviction; and the progress of her life in the aftermath. The narrative also provides such details as: the status of her relationships with family and other men; her issues with heroin addiction; the gradual awakening to, and acceptance of, her post-traumatic stress syndrome; and the practically unbelievable development when one of her college roommates is raped, on Alice’s own bed, a couple of years later.

So, you’re probably asking: why is this is a story I’d be interested in? What could possibly make this book worth my time?

Good questions.

Just let me say that Sebold is an excellent story-teller. Although this is a very difficult topic to discuss, she pulls it off with incredible sensitivity and skill. And even though it’s autobiography, which goes into excruciatingly-gory detail, especially with the rape scene at the beginning of the book, it rather reads like a novel. I was completely drawn into her narrative. Wondering what will happen next…how will she find her way through this devastation…how can she put herself back together?

Naturally, Sebold’s life has had many twists and turns because of this crime. That she found the strength to look in the mirror, step back, and try to explain, to us, what she sees – well, this speaks to me of a person of incredible courage.

I am truly inspired by her ability to communicate through the written word, and her willingness to expose herself to the world in this way.

For me: as I write, I aspire to similar courageousness. I believe that it is through stories about the human condition that we learn more about ourselves. And that the lessons these stories offer, help us to live with our pain.

Her Mother’s Daughter

In the midst of everything else going on for me right now, I finally have finished reading Linda Carroll’s biography: Her Mother’s Daughter. As I have written about before, I’ve known Linda for over 25 years and identify her as one of the most influential people in my life – indeed, I consider her one of my family on this planet during this lifetime. (I’ve absolutely no idea if she has any thoughts along these lines, though.) She’s served as my counselor, confidante, friend, mentor and spiritual guide – helping me through some very difficult spots. I am incredibly fortunate to have met her and to have had her in my life for (at this point) nearly half my time on earth. Frankly, any attempt to think about this lifetime without Linda in it hardly seems like my life at all.

I first mentioned Linda in these pages after reading Borrowed Finery by Paula Fox. Fox is the famous author of novels and childrens’ books who, early in her life, gave Linda up for adoption. Linda finally tracked her mother down after the birth of granddaughter Frances Bean Cobain. Although quite elderly now, Paula is still alive and she and Linda continue to maintain a relationship begun, belatedly, in the mid-1990s.

In the time I’ve known Linda a lot has happened to her, both personally and in terms of her public notoriety. She is, after all, not only Paula Fox’s daughter, but Courtney Love’s mother. The stormy relationship between Linda and Courtney has been reported in the popular press, up until this time, exclusively through Courtney’s eyes. A number of unflattering and outrageous things have been said about Linda that are totally inconsistent with the good-hearted person that I know and love. Not that I ever really knew much of Linda’s story before reading the book, though; I have only had glimpses into small parts of her life. As my counselor, Linda has been focused on listening to the rhythms of my story, not the other way around. Most of what I know about Linda the person has come through my experience with her in various workshops over the years. The most recent group experience I had with her was about 7 years ago now, in a PAIRS (couples) course led by her and husband Tim.

Now that I’ve finished reading Her Mother’s Daughter, I’ve searched out some of the literary reviews and am discovering that they appear, well, mixed . Some praise Linda’s narrative style and general ability to draw the reader into the drama that has been her life. Others take a more critical stance, sometimes judging her life itself, apparently overwhelmed by the chaotic nature of Linda’s existence. For myself, I was amazed at the detail Linda was able to relate to me, the reader, describing experiences from an age when I would have no memories to draw on at all. Further, I was totally engaged with her writing style, finding it smooth and conversational, mirroring the “real person” that I know her to be.

Of course, upon reading the biography, I tend to agree that Linda’s life has been chaos. And in terms of order of magnitude of lifetime chaotic experiences, her biography rivals her mother’s. As much turmoil as I believe I’ve personally experienced, I admit that my story has had less overall drama than either Paula’s or Linda’s. Linda is on her fourth marriage; she gave birth to six children, one who died as an infant; an adopted child subsequently discovered another home for which he was a better fit; she escaped San Francisco by moving to Oregon, then moved to New Zealand and back to Oregon; her oldest child is Courtney, likely one of the most “out there” celebrities since Madonna’s younger days; and (not covered in the book) she once found herself the therapist for Katherine Ann Power, an activist from the 60s who spent most of her adult life underground.

Zounds: what a life.

I’ve lived my life parallel to a good portion of Linda’s drama, and I have sought out her big heart, attentive ear, and perceptive nature time and time again. She has never said she was not available to me. Whenever I’ve shown up, she’s always been totally present. Truthfully, I only had hints here and there that she was living the life she describes in this book. Even though her own existence has surely been an emotional roller-coaster, she has always been able to focus on me and my story and provide help when I sought her out. Simply, Linda is a human being of the highest caliber. The meaning of the chaos of her life, for me, I now understand, is that she’s always been able to assist me with my own frequently-chaotic existence.

A psychic I once consulted, who relayed to me some of my past-life experiences, reported that Linda and I had been twins at least two times in previous lifetimes. It is, at the very least, an entertaining thought. I know I feel very, very connected to her. My relationship with Linda is one of the most cherished things in my life. I glad she wrote her story so that I can know it: so that I can know her better than I do.

Thank you for being in my life, Linda.