Reading

This is the first Christmas I can remember without any gift-wrapped books under the tree with little stickers on them proclaiming they were for me. Instead, I got a couple of gift cards I can use to buy books at the local B&N.

There’s a reason for that. I don’t read the way I used to and the people most likely to buy me books are aware that my reading habits have changed. I used to read nothing but history and biography. I loved books about Elizabethan England, the reign of Henry Tudor, the settlement of pre-colonial America, Teddy or Franklin Roosevelt, and old ships or famous mariners.

With that range of interests it was always pretty easy to find me a book or two or three.

I don’t read history any more. Or biographies. So buying me a book is a bit more difficult.

When I first stopped reading history, I turned my attention to memoirs. I read Pete Hamill’s A Drinker’s Life; and Tweak, written by Nic Sheff, a methamphetamine addict.

I devoured books by Augusten Burroughs and David Sedaris and James Frey even though I was savvy enough not to believe Frey’s words because I’ve been where he claimed to be and I knew where he was talking about just ain’t the way he described it.

I read Smashed by Koren Zailckas and the beautifully-titled Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn.

These are tales written by the discarded, the addicted, the harmed, and those much less than perfect. Obviously, they each achieved some measure of stability, at least enough to put pen to paper. So each story is a success story in some way.

Each of these stories, and the others I’ve been reading, starts in pain and ends in hope. Each is the story of a mountain climbed or some difficult path walked to a better place. And that’s wonderful.

Lately, though, I’ve been reading Charles Bukowski’s books: Ham on Rye, and Women, and Hollywood, and Pulp, and others. Bukowski, for those who don’t know his work, is the writer whose story was told, at least in part, in the movie Barfly.

His books are different. They’re not about climbing some spiritual mountain or walking some difficult path to overcome an addiction or a dreadful childhood or bipolar illness or whatever. There’s no real salvation in Bukowski’s books. Instead, they tell how he embraced his need and his pain and his rage and somehow managed to co-exist with them and even to profit from the experience.

So why am I reading this stuff?

Thank God my experience has taught me the truth about myself. I know that if I tried to co-exist with my own long-acknowledged alcoholism the way Bukowski did, I’d be lost with the first drink. I’ve accepted that truth and don’t fight it any longer.

I envy Bukowski though, though he died a few years back, at the age of 74. I don’t envy his ability to drink and write and manage to eke out an existence but his ability to embrace his demons without flinching and turn that embrace into something positive.

Because not all demons can be overcome. Not all mountains can be climbed and not all difficult paths lead to happiness. In fact, many difficult paths lead only to more difficulties.

I’ve faced a truth other than the truth that I can’t drink in safety. I’ve faced the truth that I’m dying. What I want to do is embrace this damned cancer the way Bukowski embraced his drunkenness and then turn it into something positive.

At least that’s what I’m trying to do.

Loneliness

I just read an article in the on-line version of the Chicago Tribune about a man in Berlin who was so lonely he jumped into a polar bear’s cage for company.

No lie. He jumped into the moat just inside the cage because he felt lonely. That’s what he said.
The zoo-keepers lured the bear away with a leg of beef so the lonely guy remained lonely but he wasn't eaten.

I’ve been there. Not Berlin and not in polar bear’s cage, but lonely. And it’s terrible. It’s terrible at any time of year but it’s particularly terrible at this time of the year.

Once, about thirty years ago, I was forced by drink and other circumstances to spend a few months as a guest of the Salvation Army in Tampa. It wasn’t as bad as you might think. I had to pray for my supper, but that was okay. A few cots away from mine there was a huge man who roared in his sleep with enough force to make the walls tremble, but that was okay because I wasn’t sleeping in my car. I had to smoke roll-my-own cigarettes and couldn’t drink but at least I was safe.

What was terrible was the loneliness.

And it was Christmas.

I’d been the editor of a weekly paper in a small town near Tampa, so I knew people professionally. I’d been married, twice, in fact, and I had two small children and parents and two brothers so it wasn’t as if I was from another planet. I even had a few friends, friends I hadn’t driven away with my drinking.

But I was alone. I understood why. I understood it was my own fault. But it was truly painful. And it seemed to me that everywhere I looked I saw a couple holding hands or a family laughing or two friends in earnest conversation. Oh, yeah. That and the Christmas trees.

On Christmas Eve, the Salvation Army folks gave each resident an orange, a few pieces of chocolate, and a couple of cookies. I got mine and then I sat on my bed, thinking.

A few minutes later, one of the Sally workers called my name. That’s what those who live on the streets call the Salvation Army. Sally. Anyway, one of the Sally people called my name and told me I had a phone call. I was so excited I half ran to the phone, leaving my Christmas orange and candies and cooked on my bed.

The phone call was unimportant. I don’t even remember who it was. What I remember was that when I got back to my bed, my Christmas goodies were gone. I don’t think badly of the guy who took them; hell, it was instinct pure and simple. Given the chance, I would have done the same. But, damn, it hurt.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt that lonely again, ever. In its way it was a lot worse than the cancer is now.

So I can understand why the guy in Berlin hopped the wall to get in the cage with the polar bear. He probably wanted to be eaten.

Losing Ground

Lynne and I were going to drive up to Clearwater next week to spend Christmas with my mother. I had to phone my mom a few hours ago and tell her we wouldn’t be there. I can’t make the trip.

It’s not that I need to be hospitalized or anything near that. It is simply that the thirty months of on-again, off-again chemo I’ve had since my diagnosis have worn me out. I wake, go to my fellowship meeting, run an errand or maybe two, and come home to fall in bed. I work a bit in the afternoon and that’s it.

I take drugs to battle fatigue. It seems to me they don’t help.

So I was concerned about a five-hour drive and more concerned about getting sick while I was with my mother and not getting enough rest in a house filled with relatives and noise.

My mom understood. "It’s more important that you take care of yourself," she said. "We all know you want to be here."

I could tell she was sadder than she let on. I’m her favorite. I know that. And we have fun when we’re together. And when I’m with her, she’s not alone, at least for a few days.

It’s times like these when I think of the cancer as a live, virulent, hungry thing that wants only my destruction. It’s taking longer than anybody thought. But it’s times like these when I fear it’s really getting the upper hand.

Goodness

I’ve been alone for most of the day today. Lynne, my wife, took a commuter train down to Miami this afternoon to visit a friend of hers. This friend – Jimmy Miller – was disabled in a terrible accident almost twenty years ago. He’s been in the hospital ever since, unable to use his arms or legs. When he speaks, it’s almost impossible to understand him. Lynne has known him, been a friend of his, and visited him as regularly as she can for all of those years.

I couldn’t do that. I'd rather stay home alone.

I don’t like hospitals. I don’t like being in the hospital because I’m always afraid that once I’m inside I’ll never get out. I know that’s silly but it’s not really out of the question these days.

I also don’t like visiting friends or relatives in the hospital. I never know what to say. I certainly have no idea how to begin a conversation with Jimmy. So Lynne goes alone. And since I can’t drive her it takes a real effort on her part. She has to catch the train and ride for about 90 minutes then transfer to a local for a couple of miles and then walk two blocks to where she can sit by Jimmy’s bed for an hour or two talking.

Jimmy likes sports, particularly basketball, but I don’t think Lynne and he talk much about the NBA. He loves music. He has a CD player in his room and it’s always on, just loud enough for him to hear. Lynne loves music. So they spend some time talking about music. Sinatra, Ella, maybe Tony Bennett. And they talk about their shared faith, a belief that all will be well even as Jimmy rests in his bed unable to move. The same faith that convinces Lynne that visiting her friend is the right thing for her to do not because she expects anything in return but because it’s, well, what God wants her to do.

Lynne and I have different beliefs. We’ve found a way to coexist in peace. I try to act with charity because I think that’s the most important of the graces. Lynne doesn’t try anything. She just does it. She’s innocent and loving and good in ways I can’t comprehend. Don’t get me wrong, she can be hard to handle sometimes, as can I, but she’s as good a person as ever lived. And for almost two decades, she's made be better than would have been alone.

I thought I should say that.

God

Some of the people in the sober fellowship I’m in have a habit of saying things I don’t understand. Usually these are things they assume they know about God.

Of course, belief in God is not a requirement of this fellowship. Belief in a higher power is. Often, over time, what begins as faith in a higher power morphs into belief in God with an upper-case G. At that point, men and women who once questioned God’s existence start to talk as if they share God’s private moments.

"God won’t give you more than you can handle," is one of the things they say, often.

What the hell does that mean, anyway?

Does it mean this higher power won’t bring down on me anything bad enough to cause me to pick up a drink? Does it mean this God of theirs won’t afflict me with a problem so severe that suicide becomes attractive?

I wonder how anybody can say that.

The way I see it, the only people who use this line are people who’ve never been given more than they could handle. The ones who were given too much of a load are either drunk or dead, I guess. Or maybe mad. Not angry. Mad. And often, they didn't do anything to deserve it.

The survivors are the ones who have a reason to be upbeat. Not the ones who suffered. And those who are upbeat usually didn't do anything outstanding to deserve their good fortune.

Woody Allen once said that anybody who doesn’t consider suicide from time to time just ain’t paying attention. I’m not saying I’m thinking of suicide. I’m not. But I’m thinking I can sure understand how suicide might look attractive.

I had chemo today and I’m not feeling great but, as I said, I’m nowhere near suicide. I also had an appointment with my shrink. He’s a good doctor. If anything, he’s too good, that’s why he always runs late.

Anyway, in the waiting room I saw a young woman sitting in a wheelchair. Young enough to have been in Iraq or Afghanistan where ever-changing front lines put women in deadly combat. This young woman didn’t appear to be physically wounded. But she was wounded. She was closed in on herself. She had her hands over her eyes. She rocked. Though I didn’t hear it, I bet she moaned.

Later, I heard my doctor and his nurse talking. I didn’t plan to or want to overhear and they never broke any rules because they never said anybody’s name. But I heard the words.

Severe depression. PTSD. Post traumatic stress disorder. Suicide attempt.

Anybody who doesn’t consider suicide from time to time just ain’t paying attention.

God won’t give you any more than you can handle.

Indeed. Somebody forgot to tell her.

Television

I spend a great deal of time in bed these days. I used to spend much of my time in bed reading. I read history and memoirs and a little bit of fiction. Though I’ve never wanted to live in New York City, I’ve always enjoyed reading The New Yorker magazine, The New York Review of Books, and the editorial section of The New York Times. In a normal week, before I got sick, I’d read two books, perhaps three.

That’s changed now. I just can’t read as much as I have for most of my life. I’m too tired. I hold a book on my belly as I always did, I start to read, and I nod off. I hold a magazine or newspaper section, read a couple of paragraphs and wake, later, with the magazine or paper over my face.

I miss the reading.

As a consequence, I find I’m spending much of my time watching television. In fact, the television in my room is almost always on. I’m either watching some movie or show I’ve already seen or studiously not watching some movie or show I’ve already seen. Either way, the television takes up a lot of space in my life. Most nights, Lynne comes in my room and switches the set off after my pills have started working and I’m asleep.

When I was a boy, my parents, who were far from wealthy, always had money to buy me one book a month at Marshall Field’s Department Store in the Chicago Loop. We take the elevated downtown, look for bargains in the basement, eat a fried hot dog for lunch and, always, stop in the book department on the fourth floor. That’s where my mother, a teacher and ultimately a school librarian, handed me a book about the history of the old west and teased me with the idea that someday I might be a writer.

Books were respected in our house. They were kept in bookcases that lined one wall in the living room and the bottom half of a wall that that ran along a hall almost the entire length of a three-bedroom apartment. To crack a book’s spine or dog-ear a page was a criminal offense.

Television wasn’t respected. I had to sneak to a neighbor’s house to see Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bob and Clarabell and Princess Summerfall Winterspring on screen about the size of postcard. On weekends, we’d often go to my grandfather’s house to visit old Mike Molloy and my uncle Kevin and there we’d see wrestling and Ed Sullivan and the Jackie Gleason and Art Carney and Fulton Sheen and my mom and dad would watch as raptly as anybody else in the room. When we got home, though, the television went back to being the "idiot box."

Now, my mother lives alone. My dad is dead. My brothers and I can visit only so often. The television in her house is her constant companion, turned loud enough for her to avoid having to read lips. She watches Judge Judy and Flip this House and reruns of Jerry Seinfeld’s comedy show.

Don’t get me wrong. Books are still important to my mother and to me. But it’s different. Television is no longer the idiot box in either my mother’s house or in mine. The television provides an easy way to disconnect, to free the mind. And sometimes – in my case or my mother’s – that freedom from thought is as refreshing as a good read.

Critique

I spent last Sunday with the critique group I belong to. At our meetings, we each read – if we’re ready – a chapter or sample of our current project. After we read, the other writers critique. Gently. We have a tendency to say things like, "Have you considered…" or "Maybe you could think about…" Even the most negative of comments are prefaced by a compliment of some sort.

We never get nasty.

With this group, that’s easy to do. There’s always something good to say about everything that’s read. That’s not always the case. In the past, I’ve been in groups where the writing was bad and personalities clashed. It could be brutal.

Once, I submitted a couple of sample chapters of a novel to an editor at a major publishing house. I’d been advised to mail the chapters off and given the editor’s name by an agent at a writing workshop I attended. With that support, I expected a positive response, or at least a friendly one.

Instead, the editor told me my ear for dialogue was abysmal and that he could hardly finish reading the first page of the manuscript. It’s taken me a long time to get over those comments, even though I’ve published about ten books since that editor passed his judgments.

I enjoy the critique group I’m in now, though I can’t always make the meetings or stay very long when I do. These men and women have often given me what I needed in terms of encouragement when the going got tough. Now they let me know how much they care just be being there for me.

And, of course, there’s Sylvia’s Irish soda bread. She gave me three more loaves, already sliced, still warm from the oven. I’ve started buying exotic preserves to go with her home-baked bread. Peach and blackberry and pure apple. It’s wonderful.

It’s funny how little it can take to make me happy these days. Or how little it can take to make me miserable.

The critique group and my friends and Sylvia’s soda bread remind me of what’s important.

Notre Dame

Notre Dame’s football season ended Saturday night. It ended badly. A season that started brimming with high expectations turned into a bummer. The last game was brutal The University of Southern California (USC) embarrassed the guys from South Bend. It was so painful I turned the game off at half time.

This year, the Irish lost games they should have won, giving up healthy leads to less-talented teams. The fans – including me – expected a nine-win season or maybe eight wins and a trip to a major bowl game. Instead, the Fighting Irish ended the regular season at 6 – 6, hoping for an invitation to a third-tier bowl.

My mom, an ND fan for almost ninety years, called on the phone after the Irish lost to USC. "They were terrible," she said. "The coach should be fired."

My mom isn’t the only fan who feels that way. The sharks are already circling Coach Charlie Weis who was, after all, hired away from the pros at $2-million a year to return Notre Dame to football greatness. No wonder coaching Notre Dame is famously known as the second hardest job in the country. Barack Obama just won the hardest.

Last year at this time, at the end of what was the worst season in the history of ND football, I started counting days, waiting for this year’s team to take the field. I figured – pessimist that I am – that 2008 was likely to be my last chance to watch a team I’ve been following for almost 60 years.

Now it’s over, or almost over. There will be a bowl game and I’ll watch it and root. Then, I’ll start counting days, waiting for October of next year, waiting for a new season. And when the Irish take the field I’ll be sitting next to my teddy bear, the one dressed in a Notre Dame uniform, cheering the team again.

I wish the Irish had done better, but waiting for next year – waiting for the Irish to excel and for the Cubs to finally win the world series – may well be the impetus I need to keep on living for another 12 months.

Here’s hoping.