God

I go to a sobriety fellowship meeting almost every morning. I’ve been sober for a long time so I don’t really have to go. I go because it’s habit and I enjoy myself, mostly.

At each meeting, there are prayers.

The Serenity Prayer at the beginning. The Lord’s Prayer at the end. In between, lots of stuff about God’s will and counting on God for help.

It is supposed to be okay if you don’t join the prayers or talk about God because the fellowship doesn’t demand religious belief. If you don’t join in, though, you better be prepared for some people to look at you as if you are committing some kind of terrible sin.

I don’t join in and hold hands during the Lord’s Prayer any more. I haven’t for a couple of years. It’s not because I don’t believe or don’t want to be social. It’s because my immune system has been weakened by chemo and I’m afraid of holding hands with some alky I’ve never seen before.

I do believe enough to pray, my own way.

Listen. I like to think I’m an intelligent fellow. I’ve been told I have a high IQ. I was invited to join MENSA a few decades ago. Unfortunately, at the time I was in this place where they kept me behind a whole bunch of locked doors so I couldn’t really get to a meeting. Still, I’ve always considered myself bright.

Right now, though, there are times when my mind seems incredibly slow and my thinking incredibly shallow. I can blame that slowness and lack of depth on the handful of drugs I take every day and on the chemo.

There’s one good thing about this slower mind of mine. I can read the chapter of a book, enjoy it, then go to sleep. When I wake, I can pick up the book, look at the chapter I just read and remember none of it. So I can read it again. And enjoy it again.

I can save tons of money simply reading the same book over and over again.

Anyway, I have come up with a belief in a Higher Power. I have to say, however, that my Higher Power belief is a bit different from other beliefs I hear spoken about in fellowship meetings. My mental shallowness probably has a lot to do with this.

I was raised Catholic. My dad went to mass and communion almost every day of his life. We went as a family each Sunday and Feast Day. I was an altar boy and believed enough to consider becoming a priest for a while. I stopped thinking about a life of chastity when I was in the seventh grade. I saw a girl with remarkable breasts in the school library. About eight years later, the same girl – Patti – and I would marry.

Anyway, I practiced Catholicism until I graduated from high school and enlisted in the Air Force. Then, I simply stopped. I went to one mass in Japan, with girl I liked. Dropped in on a Buddhist Temple or two for the same reason. I visited a Baptist service in Texas and didn’t like it; went to a couple of mostly-black churches during my hippie years. I don’t remember thinking much about God in all those years or all the years I drank.

Now I do.

First, I need to be honest about my belief. The God I believe in doesn’t really have a name. If you want to call God something, "God" is about as good as it gets. But I don’t think you need to refer go God as "God" to get attention. "Help" or "Hey You" are probably acceptable.

The first times I prayed as an adult were in the earliest days of my sobriety. My sponsor – a kind of guide in the fellowship – told me he thought it might be a good idea if I asked a higher power for help. He told me how he did it. He was sober 30-something years at that point, so I paid attention.

I lived alone, but I was afraid someone would see me pray, so I prayed in the shower. "God," I said, "I don’t know if I believe in you. I don’t know that you’ll help me if you’re listening. But Jimmy told me I should pray. So I’m praying. Help."

That’s what I said. And something happened. I didn’t drink. I stayed sober.

When I think of God, I remember those simple prayers. I imagine God as an old guy (sorry, I can’t imagine an old woman God). The guy I think of resembles Monty Hall, long-time host of "Let’s Make a Deal." And his deal is simple. If I do one simple thing he asks me to do, I win everything. If I don’t, a lose everything.

And the thing I’m supposed to do is lead a life of service to other people. It doesn’t have to be "uniformed" service like that performed by the religious crew in "Guys and Dolls" or big-deal service like that done by Francis of Assisi. It can be smaller than the stuff done by television evangelists. It can be so small only I know about it and maybe the person or institution I'm serving.

It works. Sure, sometimes I’m not of service – I do something to hurt someone or maybe cheat someone – but not often. And when I do, I try to fix it.

Usually, I do what Monty Hall wants me to do. I make a deal. I offer service. And in return, he, God, makes my life okay (most of the time) and, as a consequence, I don’t really fear death. Not at all.

It just makes sense to me. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me after I die. Maybe nothing. Or maybe – and this is what I think – I’ll return to be part of the undefinable power that created everything damn near an infinity ago. I’m okay with that.

I’m also guided by the great, deep, philosophical argument presented by Blaise Pascal. It’s bit fancier than my Monty Hall approach, but not really much.

You see, Pascal said, if God really does not exist, it makes no difference at all what you believe. If you bet there’s no God, and you win, you win nothing. If you bet there is a God, and you lose, you lose nothing.

If, however, there is a God and you bet he exists, and he does exist, you win eternal happiness.
Of course, if you bet there is no God, and he does exist, you lose, you lose everything.

Therefore, the safest, most meaningful, most profitable bet is to put all your money in Monty Hall’s hand and bet in the existence of a higher power.

That’s what I do.

Oh, yes, there were a lot of people praying that I’d get good news from my cat scan a few days ago.

I didn’t get "miraculous" news, but I got pretty good news. The main tumor has grown, but just slightly. It could have been much worse. I thought it would be. I’m starting a new kind of chemo.

I guess the prayers didn’t do any harm.

Yuck

Cat-scan today. I won’t learn what the scan discloses until sometime next week. I guess I shouldn’t be frightened, but I am. I figure the recent weight loss and increased fatigue signal problems.

Problems….

Anyway, I went and lay in the machine with my arms above my head and kept still while I was being scanned and the technician and I hardly talked. That’s okay. I didn’t really have much to say and she looked angry.

I telephoned Lynne from the hospital hallway just to let her know I was done and she told me she’d been praying for me and knew without a doubt that I was going to be okay. I hope she’s right, but doubt it. I keep those doubts to myself though I’m sure she knows.

I’d planned to write today, but I just don’t have the steam. I try to read and can’t remember what I read from paragraph to paragraph. I could listen to the Chicago Cubs baseball game on my computer, but I just don’t care. I’ll sleep. Then later, Lynne and I will eat, or she’ll eat and I’ll make believe and then I’ll go to bed and she’ll be alone.

Some of the days are like this. There’s no real way to fight it. All I can do is hope tomorrow is a bit brighter.

Plagiarism

I’m between chemo treatments now, enjoying about three weeks without injections. Later this month, it’s cat-scan time, then a visit to the oncologist. Then the doc and I will decide what, if anything, we can do. I think there’s only one more chemo method we can attempt, something oral, but we’ll see.

I am alone a lot these days. Oh, Lynne and I are in the apartment but a distance apart that is much too long and arduous to be easily overcome.

Perhaps because of loneliness, I have found it a bit easier now to write every day. That makes me happy. I believe I’ve always been cheered by writing, grateful that I have had both the ability and opportunities to make my way as an author.

In an old shoe box in my closet, I have the very first thing I ever wrote. It was a little story about St. Patrick and Ireland. I guess I knew I really wanted to write books, because I’d taken two sheets of typing paper and folded them in half, then stapled them to fashion a tiny book ofeight pages, each filled with words and iterrible llustrations done in crayon.

My mom saved that creative work, giving it to me along with a bunch of old souvenirs – photos and grade cards from school and old news clippings and a dried flower from someplace long forgotten. I was, according to the date my mother had written on the first page, five years old when I’d written about St. Patrick.

I was thinking about that piece of work yesterday and suddenly, without warning, I remembered some other writing I managed to scribble out 45 years ago, or so.

What I remembered was winning the first writing contest I ever entered, a contest held when I was in the fifth grade at Our Lady of Peace, or maybe the sixth. If my memory is correct, every Catholic student in whatever grade I was in was given the chance to write 100 words or so about something Catholic and then – to win a prize – submit the writing to some priest or maybe a bishop or even a cardinal.

That judge, poor fellow, would read all the words of all the students and name two winners. One of the winners would be a girl, the other would be a boy.

I didn’t write a word until the night before the work was to be turned in. I had no idea what to write until I picked up a tiny volume written by some priest somewhere to explain different Catholic terms to little boys, like me. Flipping the little book open, I found myself looking at a page about prayer. Specifically, about how to pray.

I don’t know who the author was and have no recollection of the words. I do remember reading each sentence and then rewriting it in little boy terms. I even remember making a couple of mistakes on purpose. I remember hoping I would not get caught.

Ha!

Not only did I not get caught, I won the contest. Some girl from a school in the north side of town, won the female division.

As I recall, both writings – mine and the girl’s – were printed in the city’s Catholic newspaper or perhaps the parish bulletin. I was, I guess, supposed to feel proud. Instead, I was terrified. I just knew someone would recognize the words and shame me. I kept waiting for the telephone to ring or for a posse of monsignors to show up at the front door.

Instead, all I got was a note that I’d won a ticket to see The Song of Bernadette movie in one of the downtown movie houses. I wouldn’t be alone, of course. I’d be accompanied by the little girl who had won the female contest and by two nuns, one from my school and one from hers.

I don’t remember enjoying the movie even though we sat in the balcony. The only thing I remember about the little girl are the truths that she was terribly obese and disgustingly holy. As I recall, she sat with her hands together and her head slightly bowed from the film's opening until its ending.

I firmly remember that we couldn’t get popcorn or candy. I remember I had to sit next to a nun who prayed her rosary without a pause. I remember some other kids looking at me and the girl and the nuns and laughing. I couldn’t wait to get home.

I don’t believe I’ve ever knowingly plagiarized since those days. The reward for stealing those words was, to my mind, a simply horrible punishment.

I don’t even enjoy the memories at all.

The Future

I spoke earlier about how difficult it is to simply think of my future and easy it is to embrace the past.

I spend a lot of time in bed these days. Sometimes asleep, usually awake. Often, as I lay in bed, I look around my room at stuffed, untidy bookcases, at boxes full of old manuscripts, at pictures, at piles of books on the floor, and clothes I should have hung up. Hell, I’ll look at just about anything that captures my eye.

One recent day, I looked at the top of one of my bookcases. I saw a couple of small boxes holding financial statements and old contracts from publishers. I glanced at the 20 or so books filed on top of the case. I saw an Irish cap I bought a few months ago, a cap I love. I also saw a framed picture of me in the fifth-grade class in Our Lady of Peace School in Chicago.

When I looked at the cap, I wondered briefly – very briefly – if I’d live long enough to once again experience cold weather in South Florida. I wondered if I’d ever wear the cap again.

Then I looked at the old class picture. Instantly, I was back in the fifth grade, tiny and skinny, dressed in my light blue uniform shirt and dark blue tie decorated with embroidered letters reading "OLP." I closed my eyes for a moment and I was back in the classroom with its green chalkboard, huge crucifix, and Sister Maureen, as small as most students in the class, with a look, when angry, as terrifying as any monster in any movie.

I smelled the classroom. I looked around and saw Jimmy Ross and Mike Ryan and and Jimmy Flynn and I remembered our playing together in the street outside the school and remembered how Sister Maureen always sold candy in the classroom to raise money for the missions in Africa and I smiled and really felt good.

Forget the Irish cap. I was much more comfortable in my world of 50 years ago than in the real world of today when I try to imagine my future.

I told Lynne (she’s home from the hospital) about my feelings. We’re married 18 years now, our anniversary just three days ago. As we talked, we both realized how long it has been since we’ve sat and spoken, for any time at all, about our fears and hopes and wishes and our feelings.

It has been a long time, but it hasn’t really been intentional.

We’ve both been locked inside ourselves. Part of the locking having to do with the feelings we share, each of us, that the other, our spouse, is in enough pain without our adding any weight.

It’s not helped great deal by the physicality of our situation, me in bed for hours at a stretch, unable or unwilling to speak to anyone while Lynne’s awake, moving about, looking for company.
That situation is just not right, Lynne told me. I agreed. So we’re going to set at least a little time aside each day, time to sit and talk about the stuff that matters, not the bank account or the dinner recipe or what television to watch.

Instead, we’ll talk about how we feel, what we fear, what we welcome, that kind of thing. Wish us luck.

Oh, yes, when I told Lynne about my inability to imagine the future, any future, she gave me some advice.

Think first of tomorrow, she said. Have a hope for that next day, that tomorrow, a desire, a target, whatever. Make the hope or desire or whatever achievable. That way, there’s some satisfaction almost certainly in store.

At the same time, she said, have one goal a bit further out, maybe two months or four months or so, but within a very possibly achievable time. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. Maybe a short trip to St. Augustine, the city we both love. Maybe a trip to hear an opera or visit a friend in Miami or who knows. Again, its something achievable, realistic, and therefore comfortable.
My short-term goal is simple. I’m back working again, writing a bit and editing a bit each and every day. It’s good. I like the feeling of still being worthy of something. It also makes me feel as if there’s some reason for me to look into the future.

My long-term goal is for Lynne and me to go up to our favorite city, to eat in one or two of St. Augustine’s justifiably famous restaurants, to visit one more time the Castillo de San Marcos on the waterfront and to walk along the narrow streets of the Old City past the tourist traps and gift shops.

Let me rephrase that. The real long-term goal is for us to take that trip after I’ve finished writing the two books I’m working on. and almost finished That would be a pretty good way to end my life.

Memories

I spend some time each day reading a few of my favorite newspapers on line.

I start with the New York Times. I’m a subscriber, but I usually start reading before my "real" paper has hit the porch outside my front door. By the time the paper comes, generally, the only thing I look at is the daily crossword. That’s because my mother and I have started something like a competition to see who does better on the puzzle each day. I telephone her at 6 p.m. and we compare notes.

Anyway, after the Times, I hit the Washington Post. I’m not so crazy about the Post these days. I loved it when the Carl Woodward-Bob Bernstein team broke some disgusting news about Tricky-Dicky-Nixon almost every day. It seemed to me they weren’t aggressive enough in George W’s earliest days and stayed too friendly as his disastrous time in office came to an end.

(The only true reporting on Bush was available on the John Stewart Show. If you don’t know that show, it’s on the "Comedy Network." I think that says a hell of a lot about the Bush era.)

After the Post, I look at the Chicago Tribune. No mystery here. I was a kid in Chicago and – after my time in the service – returned as a student at the Goodman School of Drama, part of the Art Institute. That’s a good school. One of the most famous in the country. Lest you think I’m bragging, I need to be honest and say my drinking got me expelled. At the age of 23.

After the Trib, I look at the Chicago Sun Times because the Sun Times is a bit more politically liberal than the Trib. The Sun Times also features Roger Ebert, the famous movie reviewer and general commentator.

I have a special feeling for Ebert. We’re both suffering cancer. Not only that, but he was the friend of a friend of mine when I was going to the Art Institute in the late 1960’s.

One night, late, my friend and I stopped in anIrish bar in Old Town and grabbed places at a crowded table. In one chair, silent but observant, sat a guy who introduced himself as Roger Ebert, the critic for the Sun Times. He wasn’t famous then. Just a nice guy who was drinking Guinness Stout, as I recall. We even talked movies for a couple of minutes. I’m sure he doesn’t remember that night, but I do.

Anyway, the Trib this morning had a brief about how the roof above one of the upper-floor rooms at the Field Museum leaked during a thunder storm, dampening or damaging some of the 250,000 items stored in that single room.

Suddenly, I remembered the Field for the first time in fifty years, or at least forty. My mom used to take us, Kevin and Pat and me, to the museum six or maybe seven times a year. I can close my eyes and remember walking through the main entrance into a magical world. I remember the dinosaur bones and the displays of Neanderthal man and huge insects and rooms filled with mummies, dozens and dozens of mummies.

It’s funny. I can close my eyes and remember the Field and other things from my distant past. I can’t spend even a minute imagining the future.

JUDY

I got a brief email the other day from a woman named Judy. I usually don’t open emails from men or women I don’t know. The subject line on this one, though, said something about "old memories," so I decided to open it.

I’m glad I did.

This email was from someone I knew fifty years ago. Judy Caulfield, her name was, and she lived a little ways up a hill from the girl, Patti, who became my first wife. I can vaguely remember Judy. I think I kissed her a few times but do remember how nice she was.

In her message to me, Judy first told me she'd been reading my blog. She went on to tell me that I’d been always nice to her. She told me I needed to remember more of the past than just my days of drinking, that I just didn’t remember myself fully.

Here’s part of her message:

"What I am trying to say with all this mindless babble is that you had a friend out there all these years who always smiled whenever (she) thought of you. I never knew Kieran the drunk. The Kieran I remember was very sweet and so kind that you have always had a spot in my heart. Isn't it funny how we all go through life not knowing the little bits we leave as we walk."

Again, I don't want to brag, but I’m glad I got that message. I needed it.