One of my best friends told me yesterday that one of her close friends was recently diagnosed with cancer. She discovered a tumor on her chest about 6 weeks ago and within a few weeks, she learned that it was from a rare and nearly-always deadly form of cancer. Adding a sordid kind of vindication to those party ice-breaker “what would you do if you had a week to live?” questions, the doctors informed her not long ago that she will most likely die before this weekend is through and there isn’t anything they can do to help her save giving her medication for the inevitable pain. My friend visited this woman this past weekend to show her support and to, if only on a very respectfully silent level, say goodbye.
Despite crossing paths with this woman four and a half weeks ago (pre-diagnosis), I can say without a doubt that my life has, up until now, never been affected by her, minus one notable exception: something about her rubbed me the wrong way that Saturday and, after coming to a snap judgment as I so often do with strangers, I decided that I didn’t like her. And so here I am today, offering my heart and my ears and my shoulders in an effort to console one of my best friends, while also privately dealing with the illogical guilt that came packaged with the realization that I thought very real negative thoughts about someone who, in a matter of hours, will be in an ultimately deadly pain I could never possibly imagine.
Like I said, my guilt is illogical and my experience with human nature tells me that it’s most likely my own awkward way of dealing with death, even if it is the death of someone seemingly so irrelevant to my life. I’m probably using this feeling of guilt to fill the void left inside of me by the depressing recurring recognition of my own fragile mortality. Lord knows it wouldn’t be the first time I dealt with death in an awkward (read: human) way:
When I was 5 and my great-grandfather died, I spent much of the wake playing hide-and-go-seek around his casket with my cousins; when I was 14 and my grandfather died, I spent most of the week craving isolation and privacy so that I could unleash endless gallons of tears into the world while I embarrassingly sang religious hymns to calm my anxiety; when I was 17 and my high school guidance counselor died, I haphazardly chose the University of Hartford as my next educational stop; when I was 23 and the husband of a coworker committed suicide, I was so angry and sad and depressed that I couldn’t work for two days, even though I had never met the man and had never said more than two words to his wife; when I was 24 and my other grandfather died, I got a tattoo; and when I was 24 and my dog died, I cried more than for all the other deaths combined.
It’s during times like these, when death rules your conscious and subconscious thoughts, that it seems the only antidote for the fear of the unknown is the only other indescribable feeling out there: love. The most obvious case in point is to take a look at the September 11 phone lines that were forever tied up with calls between loved ones. Just as John Lennon said, “God is a concept by which we measure our pain,” I submit that love is a feeling by which we manage our fear of death.
The band Iron & Wine has a song called “Passing Afternoon” that my amateur song-interpreting skills have determined is about a love lost (aren’t all songs about this?). I initially planned to mention the song because it contained the following line, which I thought best described how I’m feeling today: “there are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days.” But close inspection of the song’s lyrics made me realize how similar it is to something I had already written and so now I’ve decided to end this entry with my own words instead.
Let me preface my poem by saying that this most recent encounter with death has reminded me of a lesson I’ve been trying to teach myself for as long as I can remember: life (meaningful or not) disappears quickly, but while we’re here, life isn’t about death so long as it’s about love.
The frost on the tree that sits outside our room
reflects the moonlight of the January night.
Flowers and life are paralyzed by the gloom,
leaving a barren yard suffocated in white.
Our bodies are entwined beneath the sheets of the bed.
We are warm and safe from the winter air.
The February night passes and the morning is spread.
I wake to the scent of your sweet golden hair.
The sun rises over the hills that lay in the east,
casting shadow upon shadow over a desolate March land.
The wind pierces us like an unforgiving beast
as we walk side by side, hand in hand.
The wind dies but the clouds multiply,
hiding the warmth of the April sun for a while.
You glance toward the heavens, shiver and sigh.
I give you my coat, you give me your smile.
The trail ends with the roots of an ancient maple tree
that is thriving from the rich vitamins of May.
I lean against the tree, you lean against me.
Our love is nourished by this warm spring day.
We take a different path on our walk home
and wade through a sea of grass so high.
My heart keeps a beat like a rabid metronome
when we kiss softly underneath the June sky.
I place between your hair and ear
a July wildflower dressed in blue
and while the young flower’s death is near,
its good intentions will remain with you.
We continue walking with less and less ease
as the afternoon surrenders to the torrid August heat.
The trail winds its way through a labyrinth of trees.
Our journey now is nearly complete.
The September day and our pace slow to a crawl
as we see the comforts of our home ahead.
Summer has lost its battle with fall
and withdraws to our memories to bury its dead.
The yard is covered by a rainbow of leaves
that suppress the ground with their dry, brittle skin.
We are chilled by the hands of the brisk October breeze
and retreat to our home, waiting for the night to begin.
The November sun sets over the valley in the west,
coloring the sky like a kaleidoscope.
We lay on the porch with your head on my chest,
watching the horizon dissolve into a spectrum of hope.
I warm you from the cold December air,
kiss you goodnight and watch you drift to sleep.
These days, these months, these years we’ll share,
and this love is what we’ll keep.
© 2005 Mr. Benchly
Benchly'sword 