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.
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, October 20, 2008
I'm Sick
I don’t feel well.
The new chemo is rougher on me than I thought it would be. At least for today it is. I won’t go into details, but trust me, it’s not good.
I’ve been spoiled so far. For most of the time since I was diagnosed, there hasn’t been a great deal of pain. There really hasn’t been much discomfort, except for that associated with the chemotherapy. For weeks, even months at a time, I’ve been able to convince myself that I’m not really sick. I feel too good to be sick. I don’t really look sick.
Today, I know I’m sick. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in agony. I’m not even in a great deal of pain. It’s just enough to let me know who’s boss, at least for today.
I try not to complain because I know what it’s like to be around a complainer.
I have this good friend, Jimmy Black. Jimmy was married to a complainer. One time she had a cold and every ten minutes or so, she would complain. About her nose. Her throat. About her cold, over and over. Jimmy was reading a book, trying to concentrate. After about an hour of her complaints, he lost his temper.
"Denise," he said. That was her name. "Denise, trust me. I know you have a cold. Trust me. If I have dementia and I forget everything including my own name there’s one thing I won’t forget. I won’t forget you have a cold."
That’s the way I am around a complainer. So I try not to complain. But guess what? I don’t feel well.
I'm sure it’ll pass, but today I right now I’m sick.
It striked me that what I really don't like about feeling this way is that it makes me wonder how I'll bear up later, you know, when the fun really starts.
The new chemo is rougher on me than I thought it would be. At least for today it is. I won’t go into details, but trust me, it’s not good.
I’ve been spoiled so far. For most of the time since I was diagnosed, there hasn’t been a great deal of pain. There really hasn’t been much discomfort, except for that associated with the chemotherapy. For weeks, even months at a time, I’ve been able to convince myself that I’m not really sick. I feel too good to be sick. I don’t really look sick.
Today, I know I’m sick. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in agony. I’m not even in a great deal of pain. It’s just enough to let me know who’s boss, at least for today.
I try not to complain because I know what it’s like to be around a complainer.
I have this good friend, Jimmy Black. Jimmy was married to a complainer. One time she had a cold and every ten minutes or so, she would complain. About her nose. Her throat. About her cold, over and over. Jimmy was reading a book, trying to concentrate. After about an hour of her complaints, he lost his temper.
"Denise," he said. That was her name. "Denise, trust me. I know you have a cold. Trust me. If I have dementia and I forget everything including my own name there’s one thing I won’t forget. I won’t forget you have a cold."
That’s the way I am around a complainer. So I try not to complain. But guess what? I don’t feel well.
I'm sure it’ll pass, but today I right now I’m sick.
It striked me that what I really don't like about feeling this way is that it makes me wonder how I'll bear up later, you know, when the fun really starts.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Dying Ain't Fun
I just finished reading Art Buchwald’s book, "Too Soon to Say Goodbye," written, much of it, while he was in a hospice in Washington.
Buchwald was lucky. In early 2006 he went in the hospice expecting to die from kidney failure. By his own admission, he figured he had about three weeks to live. Instead, his kidneys somehow got better. In June of that year he left the hospice for his summer home on Martha’s Vineyard. He lived, finally, until January 17, 2007.
Buchwald was comfortable with the idea of his death. He had the opportunity to undergo kidney dialysis and, instead, decided to die with dignity. As it worked out, he lived longer than anybody expected and had a great time in the hospice. He was visited by family and friends and by politicians and newsmen and people he’d never met. He ate what he wanted to eat. He was awarded the French equivalent of the Legion of Honor for his writing. He was spoiled.
"I never realized dying could be so much fun," he wrote.
You know, Buchwald was right, but only part right.
Of course, being sick isn’t a lot of fun. And not everybody has the chance to make going gentle into that good night a protracted visit with loved ones. Pain is pain, no matter what your outlook.
But still….
What made Buchwald’s end so much fun was his decision that, no matter how much time he had left, he was going to focus all his energies on living his life to the fullest. I know that reads as cloyingly maudlin as a bad greeting card but I can’t think of a better way to write it.
It isn’t always easy to do that, to focus on today rather than tomorrow or the month after this one or on the coffin that waits. But it’s the only way to make today worth living, isn’t it? It’s the only way – to steal again from Dylan Thomas – to "rage, rage against the dying of the light."
In a way, when I allow that to happen, when I allow myself that focus, it does work to make today sweeter than any day in the past. It infuses the day with excitement, with light. In those moments, Buchwald is right. Dying is fun.
I saw my VA therapist today, a smart, gentle woman named Linda Vesley. "Do you think about death every day?" she wondered.
I told her I did, not because I wanted to but because it’s always lurking right below the surface, waiting. All it takes is someone asking how I am or the mention of cancer on the news or any other reminder that I have this disease and there I go again, thinking about death.
When that happens, and it happens frequently, it takes at least a few minutes to get my focus back. And when that happens, Buchwald is wrong. Dying ain’t fun at all.
Buchwald was lucky. In early 2006 he went in the hospice expecting to die from kidney failure. By his own admission, he figured he had about three weeks to live. Instead, his kidneys somehow got better. In June of that year he left the hospice for his summer home on Martha’s Vineyard. He lived, finally, until January 17, 2007.
Buchwald was comfortable with the idea of his death. He had the opportunity to undergo kidney dialysis and, instead, decided to die with dignity. As it worked out, he lived longer than anybody expected and had a great time in the hospice. He was visited by family and friends and by politicians and newsmen and people he’d never met. He ate what he wanted to eat. He was awarded the French equivalent of the Legion of Honor for his writing. He was spoiled.
"I never realized dying could be so much fun," he wrote.
You know, Buchwald was right, but only part right.
Of course, being sick isn’t a lot of fun. And not everybody has the chance to make going gentle into that good night a protracted visit with loved ones. Pain is pain, no matter what your outlook.
But still….
What made Buchwald’s end so much fun was his decision that, no matter how much time he had left, he was going to focus all his energies on living his life to the fullest. I know that reads as cloyingly maudlin as a bad greeting card but I can’t think of a better way to write it.
It isn’t always easy to do that, to focus on today rather than tomorrow or the month after this one or on the coffin that waits. But it’s the only way to make today worth living, isn’t it? It’s the only way – to steal again from Dylan Thomas – to "rage, rage against the dying of the light."
In a way, when I allow that to happen, when I allow myself that focus, it does work to make today sweeter than any day in the past. It infuses the day with excitement, with light. In those moments, Buchwald is right. Dying is fun.
I saw my VA therapist today, a smart, gentle woman named Linda Vesley. "Do you think about death every day?" she wondered.
I told her I did, not because I wanted to but because it’s always lurking right below the surface, waiting. All it takes is someone asking how I am or the mention of cancer on the news or any other reminder that I have this disease and there I go again, thinking about death.
When that happens, and it happens frequently, it takes at least a few minutes to get my focus back. And when that happens, Buchwald is wrong. Dying ain’t fun at all.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Pain
Every time I go to the VA hospital these days I’m asked to rate my pain from one to 10, with one being no pain and ten being a lot of pain. Most days I’m not in pain, so I just say "one" and the doctor or nurse who asked nods. When I’m in pain, I’m not sure what to answer. I’m not sure because I don’t know how bad pain has to be to get a "10" rating. Since I’m not sure how bad pain can get, I can’t even guess what a "4" rating is like, or a "6" or any other degree.
About eight years ago, when I was getting post-surgery chemotherapy for my colon cancer, I was hospitalized because of a particularly nasty chemo side effect. When I went to the ER, nobody asked how much pain I was in. I guess because I was moaning and groaning too much to answer. I would have said "10" because when that pain started, I figured it couldn't get any worse. When a nurse offered me morphine I almost licked his hand like a happy and thankful puppy.
Now, though, I’m not sure if that pain was worthy of the top rating. I think not. I think there’s pain a lot worse than that. And I’m not happy about that.
I’m in pain today. Not bad. I’d give this pain of mine today about a "two" rating.
I don’t like to tell my wife when I’m in pain like this. I figure if it doesn’t register on my face, it’s not worth bothering her. It’s not bad enough for me to go to the hospital, so there’s really nothing to be done, is there? And I don’t want to worry her. I also don’t want to have to keep telling her I’m okay every time she asks.
The only reason I bring it up is because I always think this pain is a hint of what’s down the road, some kind of message to keep me from feeling too sure of myself. And it works. Most times I’m sure I can take whatever lies ahead. Yo! take your best shot, cancer! Or, as someone famously said, "Bring it on!"
But then when I get these pains it reminds me that I really don’t know what number 10 pain is like. I have a feeling it’s going to be pretty bad. And that scares me. I’m thinking of asking my wife to leave me alone when the pain gets real bad. I don’t want her to have to experience it. But I guess that’s not fair, is it?
Anyway, I’m not going to tell her I’m in pain today. She won’t go on line until tomorrow or the next day, I think. She’s got too much to do. So by the time she reads this, if she does, the pain I’m in today will have passed so we’ll be able to forget about it. At least for now.
About eight years ago, when I was getting post-surgery chemotherapy for my colon cancer, I was hospitalized because of a particularly nasty chemo side effect. When I went to the ER, nobody asked how much pain I was in. I guess because I was moaning and groaning too much to answer. I would have said "10" because when that pain started, I figured it couldn't get any worse. When a nurse offered me morphine I almost licked his hand like a happy and thankful puppy.
Now, though, I’m not sure if that pain was worthy of the top rating. I think not. I think there’s pain a lot worse than that. And I’m not happy about that.
I’m in pain today. Not bad. I’d give this pain of mine today about a "two" rating.
I don’t like to tell my wife when I’m in pain like this. I figure if it doesn’t register on my face, it’s not worth bothering her. It’s not bad enough for me to go to the hospital, so there’s really nothing to be done, is there? And I don’t want to worry her. I also don’t want to have to keep telling her I’m okay every time she asks.
The only reason I bring it up is because I always think this pain is a hint of what’s down the road, some kind of message to keep me from feeling too sure of myself. And it works. Most times I’m sure I can take whatever lies ahead. Yo! take your best shot, cancer! Or, as someone famously said, "Bring it on!"
But then when I get these pains it reminds me that I really don’t know what number 10 pain is like. I have a feeling it’s going to be pretty bad. And that scares me. I’m thinking of asking my wife to leave me alone when the pain gets real bad. I don’t want her to have to experience it. But I guess that’s not fair, is it?
Anyway, I’m not going to tell her I’m in pain today. She won’t go on line until tomorrow or the next day, I think. She’s got too much to do. So by the time she reads this, if she does, the pain I’m in today will have passed so we’ll be able to forget about it. At least for now.
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