I
toss awake in the depths of the night, alone in an unfamiliar bed. I stumble to
the window and contemplate the landscape from 25 stories.
The
streets are deserted. A snowstorm swirls outside. The buildings, awash in artificial light, glow softly.
Ir
Bageshem. A Naomi Shemer song lyric comes to mind.
City
in the rain. Jerusalem buildings are constructed of limestone, and emit a soft,
pink glow when the rainy reason begins. The stone emits the same glow that now
wraps Bean town.
I
have been trying to heal. I am in
Boston to undergo another round of photophoresis, the voodoo process that fools
my T cells into believing they are at home, not in an alien host that needs to be destroyed. I am the host here. No guest should ever treat their host
this way.
Cancer.
The death of a thousand duck bites.
“What’s wrong?” friends ask.
“You’re
getting better. You have more energy.
Cheer up,” they say, “Life is worth living.”
Perhaps. But refresh my memory. Why?
I
think of Ethan Hawke from Reality bites
“There's
no point to any of this. It's all just a
random lottery of meaningless tragedy and a series of near escapes. So I
take pleasure in the details. A Quarter-Pounder with cheese, those are good,
the sky about ten minutes before it starts to rain, the moment where your laughter
become a cackle... and I, I sit back and I smoke my Camel Straights and I ride
my own melt.”
And
then there’s Woody Allen:
Why is life worth living? It's a very good question….. Those
incredible Apples and Pears by Cezanne...the crabs at Sam Wo's... Tracy's
face...
I wince at the thought.
The reason to live : food and pedophilia.
I live because others want me to live. My death would bring unhappiness to many…well, to several,
anyway. More to the point, I’ve come to view suicide as the ultimately selfish
act. Taking one’s life leaves a hole in the lives of so many others.
I haven’t thought of self-destruction in
a while. I take this to be a good
sign. Still, I have a long way to
go. Let’s go back to Woody
Allen. I don’t care about his icky
past. The man gave us Annie Hall.
“Why
is life worth living? It's a very good question. There are certain things I
guess that make it worthwhile. For me, I would say... the 2nd movement of the
Jupiter Symphony... and Louis Armstrong’s recording of Potato Head Blues. Swedish
movies, naturally. Sentimental Education by Flaubert Marlon Brando, Frank
Sinatra.”
Frank
Sinatra? Wasn’t he married to Mia Farrow, Woody’s girlfriend who adopted Soon-Yi,
Woody’s current wife?
Woody’s
monologue credits art as a reason to live. This brings me to the point of this piece: The healing power
of art.
I have a membership to the Boston Museum
of Fine Arts, about a quarter mile from the Farber. After a long day of therapy, I stroll to the MFA and wander the galleries.
A famous Childe Hassam painting hangs
there. Children feed pigeons off the Commons. It’s winter in the late 19th
century and the Boston sky holds the same pink light that shines softly at three AM
three miles from the site of that famous paining.
The painting is soothing, familiar. The same snow, the same light. The same Commons, the children
walk down Boylston street, then clogged with trolleys before the green line was
built to carry commuters beneath
the Commons.
Art can be comforting. I find familiar details in art that echo in our own lives. I cringe, thinking
of the late Robin Williams from Dead Poet’s society.
“We
read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human
race is filled with passion poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we
stay alive for. You are here , the powerful play goes on and you may contribute
a verse. What will your verse be?”
This is my verse.
Michele’s verse is her medical skill, of course, but also, her art.
We were residents at
Chicago’s Michael Reese Hospital. Another time, another city. She is a physician and a quilter. She and her family
have given me untold
comfort and support during
these queasy, neoplastic times. A
few years ago, she made me a felt
ski cap, a piebald Jesters’ hat to
wear when the chemo further attenuated my already thinning hair.
It always brought me joy. It was a symbol: Even in the bleakest moments, life holds color, comfort and love. It served as a handy link to the un cancered
world. When I felt like talking
about the Big C and Me, I could tell
curious strangers that this was my chemo cap, and that would lead to long conversations about the precarious
nature of life. Last month, we
were attending a Broadway play, and a theater worker announced, over a bullhorn
“ All of you may enter, except for that guy with the red ,yellow
and blue hat. I want to talk to him.” This sort of stuff happened daily when I
wore the hat. I must say, I didn’t mind the attention.
The
hat is art in its most basic form:
Beautiful. Comforting. familiar.
And
now, it’s gone, taken from a restaurant coat rack.
I
was heartbroken.
I
have tried to buy a similar hat. They don’t exist. I shopped for one in Boson where all hats must
bear GO BOSOX or HARVARD.
Michele is working on a new cap. I will wear it daily, I will sleep with it, my Linus blanket.
We have second chances in life, whether through haberdashery or
Chemotherapy.
I
stare out the window. CNN is on.
The snowstorm drives the Boston
News cycle. The governor has declared a snowpocalypse. What if they close the blood bank, where
I undergo my treatments? I’ll stay here another day for therapy. There
will be chaos , confusion and concern, but, for now, all that exists is a city of snow.
Retuning to Woody Allen:
“I like the rain. It washes memories
off the sidewalk of life.”
I
like the snow, it’s a window to
the past, to art, to other cities.
Best of all, it will give
me opportunities to wear my new hat.
I think of the Naomi
Shemer song:
ir bageshem sachah lanu kachah -
hachaim yafim
kedai lachem lichyot!
--A city in the rain
speaks to us. Life is beautiful, it’s worthwhile to live.
Shit.
I haven’t had an optimistic thought in months. The treatment must be working. Maybe it’s the hat. Thanks, Michele.
