by Dorien Grey
And the upshot of all this? The solution? The cure? Well, according to the therapist, I am to mix a tasteless thickening agent into everything…that’s everything…I drink: coffee, milk, water, soda, soup. Not only that, but I was instructed to drink everything using a teaspoon, not a cup or glass. 1 teaspoon of thickened liquid. Swallow. Cough. 1 teaspoon of thickened liquid. Swallow. Cough.
I can see myself going out for coffee, carrying my canister of thickener, leaving my cup on the counter and grabbing a teaspoon. Measure out the thickener, stir frantically to be sure it dissolves. 1 teaspoon of thickened coffee. Swallow. Cough. 1 teaspoon of thickened coffee. Swallow. Cough. The fact that it will take me three hours to consume one cup of coffee won’t really matter, because after five minutes of sip-swallow-cough the entire place will have cleared off, leaving me sitting alone at the table being glared at by any of the staff who were unable to leave with the others.
And no ice cream which is thick going into the mouth but melts into a very thin liquid which easily flows down the windpipe.
Doesn’t all this seem like tons of jolly good fun? No, it does not.
But I will do my best, mainly because while I have never had pneumonia, I do not want to get pneumonia. So I will compromise. I will put the thickener in everything I drink, but to hell with the teaspoon. I’ll just take very small sips. As for the coughing after every single swallow, I won’t count on it only because my eating habits already test the mettle and the patience of my friends. To put them through an endless coughing binge would be simply too much.
Either that, or I can simply refuse to drink anything in public, which means I can’t eat anything in public either, since I can’t swallow any solid food without washing it down with liquid.
Donations are now being taken for the construction of a gigantic marble statue in honor of my eternal…but always noble…suffering. I’ll use John Cena of the World Wrestling Federation for the model (no one will know it isn’t me), and will pose him, in a loincloth, atop a bolder, head raised dramatically to Heaven, face incredibly brave in sorrow, with the back of one hand against his forehead, a la silent screen vamp Theda Bara at her most emotive best.
Oh, well.
* * *
OH, THE NOBILITY
While modesty should forbid my endlessly singing my own praises, as you probably have noticed, it does not. It struck me this morning how truly noble and brave I am. I was for whatever reason going over a litany of my woes, prompted yet again by being in a restaurant and watching people eat. Biiiiggg bite. Chew, chew, chew…look of concentrated pleasure…swallow absolutely effortlessly without a nanosecond of thought…another Biiiiggg bite…repeat. And I am tempted to walk over to them and slap them silly, yelling: Appreciate it, you twit! But I don’t. No, basking in the gentle glow of the halo over my head, I merely open my mouth less than the equivalent of two fingers width to take a tiny mouse-bite, chew, chew, chew waiting for the correct amount of saliva to form to notify my throat that it is time to swallow; finally realizing that I have no saliva and therefore cannot let my throat know it should swallow, taking a sip of water/coffee/milk and swallowing. This has been going on for five years now…you’d think it would stop coming as a surprise to realize I not only can’t do what I used to do or what just about everyone else does, but that I will never be able to eat normally again.
(Here…have a Kleenex. Wipe your eyes. Blow your nose.)
I go to morning coffee with my friend Gary, who orders a large breakfast sandwich and a stick pastry made largely of filo dough. I order a stick pastry and coffee. By the time Gary has pushed his empty plate aside and gotten a second cup of coffee I have finished perhaps half of my pastry and as many sips of coffee as were necessary to wash down the mouse-bites.
(Can I borrow the box of Kleenex a moment?)
I cannot whistle. I cannot stick my tongue far enough out of my mouth to lick my lips. I have little or no control over my mouth. My lips are constantly pursed as if in prissy disapproval. When I open my mouth to talk, I have to be very careful that the whatever-the-liquid-is-that-forms-in-the-front-of-my-mouth does not pour out making me appear to be in contention for the Village Idiot award. I am considering getting a bib, because I can’t go through a “meal” without having the front of my shirt covered with crumbs, drops of coffee, or various droplets of one sort or another.
And as I finished that last paragraph, I was overcome with shame. To call anyone, even myself, a Village Idiot is insulting and demeaning to those people at whom the charge is directed. They don’t intend to be the way they are; they have no control over it. They certainly didn’t choose it. Nor did I, of course.
And I would really like to think…the danger of self-delusion ever present…that one of the reasons I am constantly bombarding you with my bitchings and moanings and “poor mes” is to remind both of us just how precious even the smallest things in life are. We…both you and me…really give very little thought to just how lucky we are to be experiencing this speck in time we call life. It isn’t always easy, and in fact can be incredibly hard for some, but it is still an astonishing gift, given only once and for a very short time. The very least we can do is appreciate it and try not to squander it.
* * *
THE TRAIN TO OMAHA
How many times has someone, looking at a photo of you taken in your 20s, said, either sincerely or to be kind, “Oh, you were very good looking!” The operative word in that sentence is, of course, “were.” Former celebrities, faces recognized but names forgotten, are frequently asked “Weren’t you…?”
As you may have noticed, I have a love-hate relationship with the past. I take great comfort in revisiting it, yet resent, with an intensity difficult to describe, the fact that the past IS past. And I am of course selective in this: there are many parts of my past…the cold blackness-of-outer-space grief accompanying the death of a loved one, stupid and/or hurtful mistakes made, opportunities either missed or thrown away…which I would never, ever want to repeat. But it is the happy times, the pleasant times, the people who meant so much to me who are now gone forever, that I wish I could revisit with the appreciation I have gained since their loss.
To spend one more Christmas Eve with my parents, grandparents, Aunt Thyra and Uncle Buck, and other relatives…. To lay on the abandoned quay at Cannes with Marc, Michel, Gunter, and Yohaquim as the warm, crystal-clear Mediterranean Sea ebbed and flowed around us…. To be with the college gang at my parents’ cottage on Lake Koshkonong, singing show tunes and playing charades…. To soar, alone, through the tops of clouds in a bright yellow SNJ trainer plane.... To be in love with someone who loved me….
Each of us has experienced our own personal joys and sorrows; that is, after all, what life is all about. A pendulum cannot swing in only one direction. That we do not appreciate what we had until we no longer have it is not only a part of the human condition but inevitable: distance is often necessary for clarity. It’s just that I think of myself as being far more aware of and sensitive to that fact than many. I may of course be deluding myself (I’m quite good at that), but by observing other people it seems to be a valid conclusion. And of course you would not be reading this if you did not understand what I’m saying.
And yet it is amazing how few people actually seem to be aware of these things. The past, now, the future are merely vague concepts. I am constantly aware of Carl Sandberg’s poem, “Limited,” from which I have often quoted the line, I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he answers: “Omaha.” Think about it.
Granted, there simply is not enough time in anyone’s life to contemplate all the mysteries, puzzles, and contradictions of that life. But, surely, a little more awareness is possible.
In our overall view of life, most of us tend to ignore the present. It is in fact the pendulum on which we ride, and we are largely unaware of its motion. Since we have spent all of our lives in the past, it tends to get most of our attention. It is where our memories
—where everything we know of ourselves and can be certain of—lie. We watch it receding with a strange combination of confusion, a sense of loss, and helplessness. The future is an unknown; we haven’t been there yet. And since we are always in Now, we pay relatively little attention to it.
Perhaps if we gave a bit more attention to and were appreciative of the positive aspects of Now, this very instant, when Now becomes Then—which it does in a nanosecond—we at least will have the comfort of knowing we were aware of it while it happened, and perhaps the sting of loss will be somewhat less painful.
And meanwhile, we are all on the train to Omaha.
* * *
THE CAPTAIN AND THE SHIP
William Ernest Henley said, in his poem “Invictus”: I am the master of my fate and the captain of my soul.
I’ve mentioned numerous times that I am increasingly compartmentalizing myself into two separate entities: my mind and my body. This morning, for absolutely no reason, I was thinking of captains and their ships, and it occurred to me that it was a great analogy for life.
While I’m probably more aware of it than most, in a very real sense each of us is both the captain and the ship. The captain…the mind…steers the ship…the body…through the often stormy seas of life. And as each of us is physically different…some ocean liners, some tugboats…captains vary in ability and skill. But a ship without a captain, or a captain without a ship, is basically helpless.
Unlike real life, the captain boards the ship the moment it is launched and stays with it until it, as it must inevitably do, sinks, taking the captain with it.
I’ve always been very proud of my ship. Despite my frequent complaints that it was not nearly as attractive as I’d have liked it to be, or as graceful to maneuver, and tended to run aground from time to time, it has been a very good ship. It truly hurts me to see the bright, shiny paint of the hull fading, rust forming on the steel plates, and the once bright and crisp flags flying from the masts increasingly tattered and faded. Odd sounds emanate from the engine room, and while it tries its best, to keep up to its former self, its top speed has dropped considerably.
As captain, I watch with envy as I am passed by newer, faster, far more attractive vessels, all fresh-paint, shiny smokestacks undented and unfaded. They pass with seldom an acknowledgement, to leave me bobbing in their wake.
It’s taken me far too long to realize that, while I may not be the best captain on the sea, I really haven’t done too bad a job. I’ve sailed on while more than a few magnificent liners plowed head-first into icebergs. During the early “war years” of the AIDS epidemic, I remained afloat while watching in horror as so many other ships, and captains, were torpedoed by the virus, floundered and sank.
I’ve never comprehended those captains who deliberately scuttle their ships with alcohol, and tobacco. They know when they take them aboard that the danger is there, but they just don’t care, and keep packing them into the cargo holds far beyond their capacity until the ship sinks under their weight.
So: we are each captain of the ship of our body, and it behooves us to steer it wisely and do whatever we can to keep it seaworthy for as long as possible. No matter what we do, the day will come when the ship goes down, taking us with it. But as for me, mine will not go down without a fight...and with great gratitude for the pleasures of the trip.
Therefore, brothers and sisters, let us close with a reference to another poem, John Masefield’s “Sea Fever”: And all I ask is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by. Amen to that.
* * *
DIRTY OLD MEN
One of my major complaints against life is that it gives you so very much to start with, and then, once you are totally used to it, begins taking things away.
I made the mistake the other day of, upon stumbling on an online ad for a “personals” column, checking it out. It was one of those “Meet People” pop-up ads on Yahoo, and all I needed to do was check “ ‘M’ seeking ‘M’ ” and put in my zip code. I knew the instant I did it that the result would only be total frustration and self pity, and sure enough…there on my screen appeared John, 27, and Bill, 30, and Jimmy, 25, all accompanied by photos of good looking, smiling young men who gave brief descriptions of themselves and what they were seeking by placing themselves on the list. I looked at each one of them, and my chest ached knowing that I still want exactly what they want, yet none of them would (or, honestly, could be expected to) give me a second glance.
Dirty old men are a cruel joke in our culture. How dare someone over 40 or 50 or 60 (and we will not even think about anyone older than that) think they have any right to be romantically loved, and held? Even trying to form a mental image of such a thing is somehow revolting. They had their chance. The door has closed on them: by what right do they feel sorrow or resentment for no longer being welcome in a world in which they were, not all that long ago, one of the gang; popular, sought after, cruised, smiled at, approached, touched?
I know that is just the way life is. I also know there are eighty-seven quintillion billion stars in the universe, yet I am totally incapable of understanding or making sense of either fact.
The ability to love is one of the many gifts given each of us at birth. Some of us use it well, others squander it. But at no point in life, be we 20 or 90, does someone come along and say, “All right, you don’t need it anymore: give it back.”
I don’t often quote my poetry in these blogs, but this subject reminded me of one that I find particularly significant, and I hope you’ll indulge me. It’s addressed primarily to gay men, but it can apply equally to anyone:
Tell Me, Friend
Tell me, friend: how old are you?
(Twenty-one? Thirty-two?)
What do you think of men like me?
(Forty-five? Sixty-three?)
Remember, please, that those “old farts”
have faces older than their hearts.
Before you scorn them, be aware
that there’s a young man trapped in there.
It costs you nothing to be kind;
look past the body to the mind
And think too on this irony:
as I was you, you will be me.
Well, that’s enough reflexivity for one blog. But don’t be surprised if the same topic comes up again at some point.
* * *
THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS
P.T. Barnum, in his New York City museum, posted signs throughout the building: “This way to the Egress.” Most people had never heard of an Egress and, expecting to see yet another exotic display, would follow the signs and find themselves outside.
People mean well, for the most part. Really they do. And if you are under 65, you most likely will not understand why I’m making all this fuss, or why I undoubtedly sound ungrateful.
But the fact is that when you approach and pass 65, you are increasingly being jostled aside, out of the mainstream of society. You become increasingly aware that you do not belong. That there is the rest of the world, and there is you. Again, much of this is done with the kindest of intentions. It begins with being offered a seat on the bus, on the insistence of others to open doors for you, or pick something off the floor for you, or carry something which you can perfectly well carry yourself.
Again, well intentioned, and quite probably both needed and appreciated by many. I am not one of those. I find having people set me apart from them in any way humiliating. If I wanted you to open the door for me, or lift something, or carry something, please believe that I would ask you to do so. What you do not realize when you do this is you are saying to me: You are old. You are not one of us. You need help. You are less than you were. This way to the Egress!
I’ve told the story before of my dear friend Louisa, who lived with her two sisters two houses down from me in Pence. She was in her mid-80s, constantly on the go, maintained a spotless house, cooked, cleaned, went to church, went out to dinner and shopping, and led a full
and active life. Her two sisters, 90-year-old Amelia and 88-year-old Rose, died quickly and quietly, but Louisa did not slow down, until one day she fainted and was unable to get up. Her daughter rushed to her side from Minneapolis and stayed with her, fixing her meals, washing, cleaning, attending to every detail of daily life, insisting she sit or lay down even when she did not wish to sit or lie down.
And gradually the change set in. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” changed to “Would you get me a cup of coffee?”; “I’ve got to weed the garden” changed to “I’m not going to be able to have a garden next year.” And then, inevitably, her daughter’s family, concerned with her living alone, insisted she leave her home, her friends, everything she had known all her life, and move in with them in Minneapolis.
She was dead within six months. She had gently, kindly, but firmly been shown the Egress.
I do not want this to happen to me. I will not let this happen to me. Please, please do not, even with all the best intentions in the world, facilitate anyone’s being shown the Egress. Do not treat me, or anyone over 65 as if we were no longer individual human beings but some sort of helpless infant. If someone very obviously needs help, by all means, offer it, but don’t make an issue of it or insist on it if they decline your offer. Allow those who want to maintain their independence and their sense that they are still worthy human beings the dignity to do so.
We all will find our way to the Egress soon enough. But before you figuratively take someone’s arm and guide them toward the door, stop for just an instant and ask yourself if they really need, or more importantly, want, the help. Keep in mind that one day someone may well be doing exactly the same for you. Is it a pleasant thought?
* * *
TEAPOTS
We all live in very small teapots, which, when subjected to even the slightest vibration, can turn the placid surface of our lives into what appear to us to being raging tempests.
