Limitations

Limitations, always limitations.  They can break your back.  With limited time and resources to pursue all the possible things I enjoy or feel are worthwhile to pursue, so many things in my life just end up being shut down.  And along with this there is the fear that I will reach my limits too quickly and may need to mete out certain aspects of myself in miserly ways.

Part of it has been my lack of focussed discipline and a tendency to daydream.  Medical School was a major challenge to these personal attributes and, as a byproduct, I believe it also shut down some of the most vital parts of who I am; parts that have taken me years to recover.  I was not that person who had massive cognitive reserves and the intensity to handle the avalanche of material to learn and have time left over to pursue other interests.  My one trick to continue reading non-medical books was to use my time in the bathroom as a kind of time bubble.  I read The Brothers Karamazov in its entirety from a porcelain chair in this way.  It was my soul crying out for sustenance.

My interest in sports also took a major hit.  I was not playing basketball.  I was not running as I had in High School Cross Country.  Medical School was all consuming and it consumed me body and soul.  The long slog left me a bit lost and bewildered when my time as a student and student-doctor came to an end.  Unaccounted for time suddenly became available but then went away again with a second child.  It wasn't until Elias got old enough to become seriously interested in sports that I rediscovered my love for basketball.  I even had the opportunity to coach his third grade basketball team which is something I'll always treasure.

And above all of this has been my desire to write since sixth grade Composition when I first had the opportunity to create an actual story or two.  These were stories that I also illustrated and received a good deal of praise for from the teacher.  I was eleven, which is my son's age now, and it wasn't until about three years ago at the age of 43 that I started writing with any kind of regularity.  This was sparked by an idea for a novel and the realization that it was now or never.  I still hardly read books, but I can thank the internet for that.

This idea in my head of limitations, both outwardly and inwardly imposed, also extended to love, or the ability to give of one's self.  I still limit myself in a multitude of ways due to obligations at home and at work, but something about love has been creeping into my awareness.  It has manifested in a joy of interacting with others and appreciating their uniqueness and essential place in the grand scheme of things.   It seems that the more I pour it out, the deeper the bottom of the cup grows.  And for the first time in my life I am learning not to fear limitations because in what is most important limitations do not exist.

***

The Therapist's Timepiece

He saw her outline through an open fogged-over glass door in the frozen foods section of the grocery store.  Like a restless ghost she rummaged through pizzas and hot pockets mumbling to herself while her two small children stood guard at the cart.  Hidden within layers of winter clothes they waited for their mother to finish adding to the pile of processed foods as quiet counterpoints to her frenetic energy.

The little girl grasped the lip of the cart to steady it while the smaller boy stuck his finger through the metal lattice to touch the cold boxes and scrape off some frost with his fingernail.  The door to the freezer slammed shut causing the boy to jump and pull his finger back quickly.

Locks of bleached blonde hair dangled from under a hand-knit cap framing a face that had once been quite beautiful before time and the cares of the world had taken their toll.  He could read in her careworn features that she was alone and that the father of her children had decided he wasn't ready to grow up and assume the responsibilities he'd created. 

He looked down at an ornate pocket watch that he had produced from his vest pocket and watched the second hand tick along its circular path.  The hour hand stood at three and the minute hand was just a sliver shy of twelve.  When the thread-thin piece of metal aligned with the minute hand he pulled the crown.  A popping sensation jarred the scene like an earthquake lasting only a millisecond and the little girl froze mid-sneeze.  

The outline of his form untethered from his corporal self which remained perfectly still in the aisle. 

He stepped forward, his ethereal self now separated from his motionless and more cumbersome twin, and made his way over to the three.  The little girl's eyes were tightly shut and tiny droplets suspended in space formed a funnel from her pursed lips.  The boy was flinching as if expecting a blow.  The mother's eyes were focussed far away from where they stood.

It was the mother he'd come to see.  The point of interest for him was the contours of her forehead.  A V-shape was seemingly chiseled there in her brow.  It had deepened over time and become an intrinsic feature of her face.  He took it in from different angles, judging its depth and intensity.  Its point was sharp and pricked him hard when he touched it with his finger.  It would not come out easily.

He brought the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together placing the point on her forehead, then belly, right shoulder, then left shoulder to loosen it.  Pincher-like his fingers snatched hold of the V-thing and pulled out and away from her head.  It pierced his fingers with a terrible ferocity but he continued to pull slow and steady.  This measured application of force allowed the tendrils deeply anchored within her to unwind without breaking off to regrow anew.  A lifetime of disappointments and poor choices came flowing out of her in damp and dripping threads.  The slowness of the process protracted his pain, filling him with a cold and desolate fire.

Time passed without time passing, an eternal nowness that had him feeling a little disoriented.  When he felt he could take no more, it pulled free and her features visibly relaxed.  It was astounding how much younger she looked and he quickly forgot the pain that had just been threatening to overwhelm him.  The troublesome creature pricked at him and fought to free itself, but he held firm.

A few aisles over he found a large jug of bleach that he opened and forced the prickly thing into it, sealing it up with a turn of the cap.  He shook the jug until there was no further movement coming from it, placed it back on the shelf, and returned to where his body stood.  The split selves reunited and he found himself once more looking down at his pocket watch frozen at three.  With a push of the crown, time resumed once again without a hitch.

The mother's focus retracted and fell to her daughter who was just finishing her sneeze.  She knelt down and cleared a strand of hair from the small face.  "Are you OK, sweetie?"  The girl, unaccustomed to such attention, simply nodded her head "yes."  The mother then turned her face to her son, "How are you, little man?"  His lower lip began to quiver as his emotions found release in her sudden kindness.  She pulled him into a hug as the therapist shut the cover of his watch, tucked it back into his pocket, and left the store.  

***

shadows & sighs

Shooting hoops with my son as
the sun sets on our cul-de-sac

suddenly realizing that even
before I can pivot and shoot

not even his shadow will remain
and I will be left alone in the street

with the basketball on my hip
wondering where the time has

gone.


***

The Last Goodbye

It truly was a miracle, because love is a miracle.  I have no other way of explaining or understanding it.  Kevin had been struggling with bone cancer for eight years, a growing mass that had infiltrated his nasal cavities and persisted despite the repeated removal of bones in his head.  It was a process that eventually claimed his one eye that had been salvaged from the retinoblastoma he'd been born with, leaving him in total darkness for the first time in his forty some odd years.

***

I was there at the beginning when he was visiting Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis.  The medical school where I was a student was just a few blocks away.  We rendezvoused at an appointment he had with his surgeon, Dr. Haymaker, and Kevin was his typical animated self, talking a mile a minute as if he understood the number of words he could share with the world were limited and he wanted to get them all out.  The smell coming from his mouth was like a dead animal and overpowering.  I had to force myself to not step away from him.  The tumor was growing so fast that parts of it had died and Kevin had no sense of smell due to its location and infiltration. 

When Dr. Haymaker came out Kevin introduced me and told him I was a medical student.  The good doctor took me back into the work area, leaving Kevin in the waiting room.  He put up a transverse plane view of Kevin's head on the light board and showed me the gray mass filling his nasal cavities.  It was like a chubby rat had taken up residence in his attic space with its tail dangling down in the rear, just above his throat.  I knew from my textbooks that this was a relatively common occurrence in those born with retinoblastoma, ie, the development of a sarcoma (bone cancer) at the site of radiation received as a child.

***

And so began the long slog for Kevin with the slow attrition of losing bones in his head and culminating in the loss of his one eye over an eight year period.  He likened it to John the Baptist losing his head, but one piece at a time instead of all at once.  

After medical school I left for Washington DC to do a four year psychiatry residency and only made occasional contact with Kevin to include seeing him when we returned to Indy to baptize my son.  My training consumed my time and attention as did this first child.  We then moved to Tennessee where I was to serve out my three year commitment to the Army.  When we arrived my unit was already in Iraq and I joined them soon thereafter.

As often happens in life, time and the cares of the world separate us from those we've known and loved, the heyday of our adventures receding steadily into the past.  I heard from a mutual friend that he had moved out to Colorado to attend a training school for the blind after the loss of his eye.  At some point, after moving to Tennessee, I'd received a call from him and he'd left a message, though it was hard to understand his words.  He was missing so many bones in his head that he had to wear a plate in his mouth to form a space from which to speak.  I called him back a few times and left messages, but I did not hear back from him.

***

More time passed and in 2008, two years into my three year commitment to the Army, I began to wonder again what he was up to and how he was doing.  It was the second week of April and I was on Facebook, which was still relatively new to me, and I saw one of those "friends of a friend" postings.  The young man pictured was listed as a student at Indiana Wesleyan University which is my alma mater.  Not only that, he was listed as being "Eastern Orthodox" which seriously piqued my curiosity.  I was brought into the Orthodox Church in 1996 and my experience was that people who had attended IWU and were Orthodox were as rare as turtle teeth.  I immediately messaged this mysterious fellow traveler named "Brian" and asked him to friend me on FB.  Due to the miracle of technology I was able to track down that initial contact on my phone:

________

Brian: 

Hi Aaron.

Kevin wanted me to get in touch with you.

He didn't know if you were aware of everything that has been going on.

Please feel free to give me a call at 574-***-****, or write me back on facebook.

Hope Lent is going well for you.

Aaron:

Thanks Brian.  I e-mailed Fr. Phillip from St. Thomas a few months ago to try and get an update on Kevin, but he didn't have much info other than Kevin was in Colorado.  I've called Kevin's cell phone off and on w/o a reply and left a few messages.  I'd appreciate any info you might have.  Take care.

Brian:

Well, Aaron, there is a lot I need to fill you in, since a lot has happened in the time since you were last in touch with him.  I think it would be better for you to give me a call (anytime really), or give me your number and I'll call you.

Talk to you soon.

[a phone call occurs at this point and Brian updates me]

Aaron:

Hey Brian, it was good to talk with ya.  I talked with Kevin's Dad and found out Kevin is still at Methodist.  I plan on driving to Indy early Saturday morning, attending Liturgy at Ss. Constantine and Elena, visiting with Kevin a bit (Bob recommended not more than 30 minutes with him due to him having so little energy), and then returning Saturday evening.  Take care.

________

It turns out that Brian was Kevin's godson in the Orthodox Faith.  What he had to fill me in on was that Kevin was doing very poorly.  This happened a week prior to Lazarus Saturday which leads into Holy Week and I quickly made plans to drive up to Indianapolis that next Saturday by myself to spend some time with him at Methodist Hospital.  I contacted another mutual friend who lives in Indianapolis who did not think the situation was particularly dire. 

 I spent that last week of Lent with Kevin heavy on my heart, trying to unite myself with him in prayer, not knowing exactly what was going on in that hospital room in Indianapolis.  A key element of our relationship is that he is my godson and I stood with him in the ceremony to bring him into the Orthodox Church as he had stood with Brian in the more recent past.  I was (and am) bound by love and tradition to support him in whatever ways I can in the Faith. 

***

In the wee hours of Lazarus Saturday I set off on the long drive up to Indianapolis, my mind kind of replaying our "greatest hits" going back to 1990 when I'd first met him at IWU.  As mentioned in my text to Brian, I attended the Saturday morning liturgy at Saints Constantine & Elena and then headed over to Methodist Hospital.  As soon as I saw Kevin I knew he was not long for this world.  He was emaciated and sitting up cross-legged in a hospital bed with a gown on.  Despite him being immunocompromised there were no restrictions of any kind in place and I quickly realized from my experience in hospitals that this was a hospice-like situation where comfort care was paramount.  We hugged and I told him that I'd gotten his message and called back to leave messages but did not hear back.  He was visibly frustrated and said that "next time" I needed to say what my number is in the message.  He repeated that plea at least two or three more times in the few hours we had together as a kind of refrain.  It was like he felt that communication between us had broken down when he'd needed it most.

Within minutes of my arrival, Brian walked into the room.  He'd decided to drive down from Northern Indiana to spend some time with Kevin and it was our first and only meeting.  He came bearing an icon of St. Kevin of Glendalough that he'd painted so Kevin could have the tangible presence of his patron saint with him.  It was a surreal few hours and I frequently fell into trying to make humorous comments that did not wholly feel like they fit the situation.  I really didn't know exactly what to do or say with my friend and godson hanging so precariously close to the edge of life and death.  When I finally said I had to leave and drive back to Tennessee, he requested we say the Lord's Prayer together.  I felt like I should stay longer, but it was not possible and those precious few hours seemed so inadequate to sum up our life together.

I walked down the hospital hallway talking with his mom a bit and then gave her a hug and got into the elevator.  As it descended, my heart and my body dropped with it.  He died three days later on the morning of Great and Holy Tuesday after jumping up out of bed and excitedly trying to tell his mom something before collapsing to the floor.  His funeral was a week later on Bright Tuesday to shouts of "Christ is Risen!"

***

So, it was a miracle, right?  The fact that Kevin was reaching out to find me in whatever way he could as his body was shutting down.  That he'd put his godson in charge of the search, a person I'd never met or even knew existed.  That I, in fact, found his godson instead, on a fluke, with no time to spare, allowing me the briefest of opportunities to see Kevin just a few days before he passes from this life.  Love made it possible and love is a miracle, right?  Of that I have absolutely no doubt.

Fairies that Rock

I did not have to work this year on the 4th of July which provided for some nice unstructured time with Anya and we took advantage of it.  The morning included some vigorous dancing in the sunken living room and in the afternoon she headed out into the backyard.  I resorted to reading a book after lunch, but would peek out the windows from time to time to see what she was up to or sit out under the gazebo on an adirondack chair.

She gathered lettuce leaves from our garden for her giraffe "Gigi" and swung from the old mulberry tree swing by pushing off with her feet.  When I got to the end of a chapter, I joined her under the tree where she was gathering flowers she'd plucked from the trumpet vine and other flowering plants in the backyard.

She pointed up to a part of the mulberry tree where a large section had broken free in the past and been removed, leaving a scarred and empty space.  "Hey Daddy, that looks like where the fairies rock out."  This is the fairy tree with a small door in its base to prove it.  I looked up to the familiar scar and saw her point.  the indentation left was like the curved roof of an outdoor amphitheater and the base of it was flat where someone had used a chain saw to free the large broken branch.

I got the idea that we should further develop the stage for the fairies to "rock out" on and sent Anya to gather small sticks.  After a few collapses of the miniature structure we succeeded in creating a stage partition and decorated it with flowers.  When we were finished she excitedly pointed out that the leaves growing from its base were the seats that the fairies sat on to watch the performances.  

These are the types of projects that I used to enjoy doing with Elias when he was younger.  Now that he has turned into a surly pre-teen, Anya has stepped up as my new creative partner.

***