Thinking Thoreau

"The millions are awake from physical labor; but only one in a million is awake for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred million to a poetic and divine life. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake."-- Henry David Thoreau



My middle daughter Ondrelique posted this quote on her Facebook profile;

How appropriate! How much more life is than this; the endless scramble for a roof over one’s head, a shinier new vehicle to drive, or a few more coins in one’s pocket! It is in essence about experiencing the sights, and scents, sounds and sensations around us—learning from and about ourselves and others, reveling in the surrounding beauty, even finding the significance of the “ugliness” we encounter in order to grow stronger, even wiser, from the lessons it all teaches us. Life is about love and joy. Laughter. Appreciating all that we discover. Reveling not only in sunshine, but taking hedonistic pleasure in the rain. This world, this universe was put together as a series of balances; plants emit the oxygen that human beings need as we exhale carbon dioxide for them; herbivores are nourished by the grass yet they are gone their decomposing shells are nourished by the grass. On and off we go in this marvelously delicate symbiosis which is far more valuable, far more wondrous than anything that we as human beings might obtain, reshape, or create by our own hands.

When did we lose it…

The joy and awe that results from beholding, in this being apart from this glorious spectacle we call existence? None of us can be certain of what lies beyond this dimension, this tier of supervening beings known as human life. In many cases, we think we know. We share notions or ideas which may or may not be correct; however, it is both arrogant and foolhardy to believe that within this finite scope of our current perceptions we can conceptualize “accurately” the Infinite.

Thus, what we have are the wonders abounding here and now; and those should be enough to feed the ravenous minds, to pique even the most sluggish imagination, and to sustain even the most battered of souls....

Why can’t we, as human beings, recognize that????

Rude Awakening

The delivery man from Schryver (a medical supply company) showed up unexpectedly at my room this morning to retrieve the oxygen equipment—equipment that I happened to be using at the time.



Naturally, no one from the hospice bothered to warn me.

Surprise surprise. This entire introduction to the “hospice system” has been an eye-opening one. From the outset it was made plain to me that I was not the typical patient. This was dpone in a rather accusatory fashion almost as though I had somehow offended them by not opting to die as they thought I should. Apparently I did not look sick, act sick, or respond to my sickness as was expected. It made the staff and administration quite unhappy.

Rather than a suitable alternative to traditional hospital care—as advertised—it is little more than a less comprehensive extension. Since my enrollment I have encountered the exact same bullying, the same condescension, the same arrogant disregard for the patient , prevalent, unfortunately, in the modern “medical” world (or health care arena), only within the hospice system these platitudes are couched within the myth of catering to the express desires of the patient. It is an oppressive world; one which those entrusted to serve and care for others instead seek n to control, manipulate or in some way to exercise dominance over them.

One never thinks about the preconceived notions applied to the sick and the dying. We each assume that the end of life will be treated with reverence, tenderness, and infinite care. I suppose the concept of another expecting one to die cooperatively and on terms acceptable to the caregiver is so abhorrent that it is never even considered; nonetheless, what I have, much to my outrage, bewilderment and frustration.

But then I stop to think about it….

Those who are terminally ill are usually the elderly or those too incapacitated to make decisions regarding their treatment and/or care. If not utterly alone, they are generally under the guardianship of harried loved ones struggling to not only come to terms with the death of someone dear to them but also with those pressures and stresses which result from providing daily care; that’s, in the typical “hospice situation”, the recipient of their services are usually all too willing to allow the “system” to dictate any and all procedures and decisions for them. Few question. Few complain. The administrators (and staff) maintain absolute autonomy with regards to every aspect of the patient’s final days.

Until someone raises an objection….

Then the delicate balance topples. The reins of power are no longer firmly in hand. Allowances must be made, questions addressed, suggestions heard, alternatives entertained, requests considered, needs met, and invariably, routines broken. And this is a situation that does not conform to the day-to-day process of providing “hospice services.” One can no longer--as an administrator, nurse, volunteer, or caregiver—operate under welcome familiarity of autopilot; and this is utterly unacceptable.

What a sad yet evocative statement regarding not only our society, but also our current health care system.

Would I be receiving my quietus at 3 this afternoon had I not questioned the before undisputed authority? Had I not pointed out the ways in which the actual system failed to conform to those standards and ideals promised, would now the same guidelines under which I initially qualified for hospice care suddenly exclude me? Had I just shut up and been a good, docile patient—unthinkingly, unequivocally, surrendering to the methods, procedures, and treatments prescribed me regardless of their effectiveness, without considering the specific needs and challenges of my individual situation, no matter how inappropriate they were under the circumstances—would Pike’s Peak Hospice (or other facilities like it) be quite so eager to “give me the beach.”

Would I still be “hospice qualified” or “a perfect fit” if “I only had [no] brain.”

Perhaps…

I shall never know.

Yet, for all intents and purposes, from all that I have seen, heard, and endured, it most certainly seems so!

Another Aubade

If but a single shaft of light
Pierces the blue-rinsed shadows of dawn
Is therein not cradled
Enough hope,
Enough beauty,
Enough radiant promise,
To see the solemnly suffering soul
Through the bleakest,
Blackest
Darkness?

This Day

This day I awoke to the realization that my mind and body had broken through this new level of physical pain. Mentally, something within me grew placid and still, leading me to also conclude that no matter what happens, I will be alright.

I no longer believe this is the end for me; however, I am not completely convinced that this "faith" is based in anything more tangible than the desire to cling to the impossible. Regardless, something indefinable has shifted within me...letting me know that I'm going to be okay.

In Death There's Truth

Developing within me is an absolute obsession with the fledgling blog of an acquaintance (a veteran entertainer-cum-writer whom I once considered a friend). It is humiliating to have one’s delusions shattered. Nonetheless I could not believe the superficiality of the pseudo-intellectual claptrap spread across my “screen” like cyber-manure, befouling everything I thought I knew about this individual. Not to mention they things for which I thought he stood. The part of me in the foolish hope that he will protest the nonsense-making it clear that he does not appreciate the blatant pandering, flattering, sycophant condescension, and general artifice—continues to log on in an almost desperate manifestation of naiveté. Something in me welcomes the sight for any indication that this person who once held my unshaken belief and admiration is not so vainly self-absorbed (so narcissistic) as to not only accept such sickeningly, transparent toadying but to encourage it, perhaps even prefer it as well.

To my dismay however, no such evidence have, as yet, materialized. The sobering, even crushing truth, I find I must face is that someone I once respected and admired is not the person I thought him to be. Such a reality is devastating for anyone to face; therefore at this point in my life—when I am facing perhaps the most daunting challenge any human being can or will encounter—it is annihilating. My biggest problem—the trap into which I fall—as a human being is the snare of getting swept away by my ability (one might even call it a propensity) to identify the “good” or the “best´ in others. Having seen even the faintest glimmering of beauty or majesty, kindness or generosity, compassion or any indication of deeper dimension on some quintessential level in an individual, my tendency is to expect the aspects to—for the most part—define that person (other than simply represent qualities present or visible when he or she is operating at his or her best). As such, my expectations sway towards that “best” and/or their “finest”…

Only to be pulverized when faced with the sledgehammer force of the truth; that what I have celebrated in that person are the aberrations, not the norm.

For Micah

A friend recently asked what my room here at Pikes Peak Hospice looked like, expecting--no doubt--my usual visual pictures painted by the many nuances of my voice and mood as a distraction (to us both) from this odd reality of my heading to an actual hospice...where I am being shipped to actually and really die. Well, this night, I wasn't quite up to that; thus, I thought I would just take a few pictures (It is, after all, the least I could do after the lovely bouquet he had delivered to me...along with his friendship, patience, and "love".)




First, allow me to post a picture of what I am told will be the last bed in which I will ever sleep. Such an odd concept...yet, one that does not alarm me as much as one might think. The prospect of death is neither frightening nor upsetting: simply strange. In this bed I am expected to take my last breath, which makes it, in my mind, worth a quick snapshot.







!!!!!
On a lighter note, above rests my Entertainment Center. Stunning it is, especially considering I have yet to flip on the television even once. (So much for tee-vee one simply must see!)




Sad.
Here sits the ugly red chair (mentioned in past conversations with my dear friend)...slightly obscured from view by piles of food I will probably never eat...even though the ever-hopeful nursing staff keeps pushing it my way, optimistic that the sight and smell might somehow tempt my non-existent appetite into being.






Here we see the bedside table from the second hospice room, upon which rests the phone, that foul instrument that allows me to pester said Micah at all hours of the day and night, whether he appreciates the constant "chatting" or not. Also, tissues for my ever-increasing
"weepy" moments...and last (but not least) the flowers (sent by that same dark-haired angel masquerading as a long-suffering close friend) which brighten my days...and nights.






This is the living area. (Notice the tightly shut drapery, which cause the hospice staff no end of vexation. "Don't you want those open?" they ask at least six times a day (corresponding with each shift change, no doubt).






On those rare days when my head is not pounding from red-blood-cell-and/or oxygen-deprivation, they are thrown open to reveal this surprisingly soothing view.








Below is the view from my bed, complete with recently painted toe-nails. (Vanity, thy name is Chanctetinyea...or would that be boredom? I've never been good at sitting still...or waiting.


And, it must be admitted, I spend as a result far too many hours contemplating the twenty-year-old scar on my right knee!)

Still in all, things are going far better than one might expect, given the circumstances. Yes, I am looking rather green of late; however, the pain is minimal. Furthermore, my energy levels--though not spectacular--do not seem to be diminishing...even though my skin tone is obviously green. (Yes, I snatched off the oxygen tubing long enough to take this rather looooverly snapshot on the Blackberry--now fully charged thanks to the long-distance purchase of a new AC adapter from Radio Shack...provided by Micah.)


What an absolutely hideous shot! (I would respectfully ask that the state of the arms and abs be forgiven, ya'll. The musculature melts to flab at an alarming rate when one is confined to a hospital bed for hours on end!)

I guess I shall never write that great work of literary brilliance to withstand the harsh trials and demands of this wisp of illusion we call "time."

Ah well...!

All in all, this whole matter of facing one's Final Days is not nearly as traumatic as one might expect. My children are safe, my best friend is but a phone call away, and Pikes Peak is not the worst place one might find herself interred to die.

Death does not, I find, scare me...

The prospect of leaving a life only partially lived, on the other hand, does. In those heavily silent hours of the morning--those unending strings of minutes, seconds, and heartbeats pregnant with both infinite promise and burgeoning loss--I wonder if somehow, on the other side of some great chasm between the dimensions of life and death, some part of me might be aware--cognizant--of the needs and sufferings of those I love (specifically my children...and, less so, my best friend) though physically unable to in any way intervene on their behalves. To me, this would be the very definition of Hades: to "see" them in danger, neglect, misery, or want...with no means to rush to aid them.

Perhaps, this is the one fear we all must face: the prospect of leaving behind "messes" to be cleaned up by those we hold dear.

In any event, for now, things are...okay. (Albeit it has taken me nearly three hours to complete this entry on my borrowed laptop.)

Whew!

Time for yet another nap!






In the meantime, however, I would like to once again thank you for the flowers, Glaser my boy. They really made (and make) my stay--here as in Memorial--more bearable.


Good night, all.

Dead Chance Walking

Since my last entry, my life has changed dramatically.


Last week I was in the hospital, where I was pronounced terminally ill. After being sent to the hospice, they said my terminal illness was not "acute enough" to warrant taking up a bed and a room. Now, I'm facing homelessness.


Nevertheless...I can't escape the urge to write...