AUGUST 19, 2022 – (Cont.) Yesterday, calm prevailed in my own little world, however much “wheels-off” was the theme in the larger picture. Occupying the tranquility, but not disturbing it, were numerous exchanges with people who influence my outlook on life and humanity. Caught up in my own hopes, fears, and focus, I’m pulled away to broader horizons by the rush of words, spoken and written, by which we relate to one another.
I’d be less conscious of the effect of my human interaction if it weren’t for my new lease on life—a lease that 10 months ago I had no inkling I’d need, since I was sure I “owned” my life, free and clear. Yet, of far greater importance than my extended tenancy is my new look on life through the kaleidoscope of perspectives offered by all the people who enter my existence as I occupy theirs.
Connections yesterday included random calls with all three of my sisters. Each conversation was filled with laughs, stories, perspectives. I marvel at how three kids growing up under the same roof, listening to the same cardboard carton full of 78 and 45 records on lazy, rainy summer days, can feast together about life—still from the same menu 60 years later.
Then there was the conversation with a neighbor friend, intimately familiar with the U of MN Cancer Center and its angels, who masquerade as human beings; a friend with whom I’ve talked countless times over years yet without knowledge of the details of his family’s frightful, yet victorious experience. With this added information and encouragement, I now value our friendship ever more.
Another conversation was with a chaplain from the U of MN Cancer Center, who, if a transplant patient wishes, will call to offer support and encouragement. I’m not religious, but when asked if I’d be interested, I said, “Sign me up!” I’d had an inkling that such a resource at a public university medical facility would be someone with whom I could establish an easy, rewarding rapport. My hunch panned out in abundance.
From one of my wife’s cousins, a sharp, even-keeled, decent guy with whom I share many interests and outlooks, I received an encouraging email with an outrageously funny article, “How to Avoid Hitting Telephone Poles.” It featured accident descriptions taken from the records of a Canadian car rental company. Just one example: “The guy was all over the road. I had to swerve a number of times before I hit him.” I wrote back that every one of the 23 examples made me laugh so hard I cried.
After exiting yesterday’s appointment, I phoned a friend 1,200 miles away and talked for not more than 12 seconds; a friend who, in response to one of my recent posts, had emailed earlier in the day an image so funny I’d laughed myself silly before grasping the full extent of the humor. Twelve seconds could’ve easily become an hour—an extension of the far-ranging conversation we’d enjoyed the previous evening—except my friend was in a hallway hospital somewhere in New York, waiting for word on his elderly father, who’d experienced a medical emergency. “I have to go,” said my friend in a low, rushed tone. “Call me later, ‘bye” I said. He didn’t. I later sent him a note conveying support, writing that I had empathy, having walked in his shoes a dozen years ago.
After the call cut short by a father’s exigency, I thought about the final ordeal of my own father, and this memory developed into the sound of his cheering voice as I now procure the best treatment in the world by the best care team in the world; treatment for the very disease that Dad didn’t even know he had until it was far too late for hope. “Dad, I’m doing this for you!” I cried aloud inside my car.
Dad, who loved Bach; Bach, whose music I listened to Wednesday evening thanks to a link sent by another friend, a supreme piano bar pianist-turned Philadelphia lawyer; the link featuring Vikingur Ólafsson, the Icelandic keyboard wunderkind; Iceland, home of the heart of the late Bill Holm, Minnesota poet and raconteur, whose work my friend admires; Bill Holm, close friend of my limerick-writing brother-in-law, to whom I’d forwarded Wednesday, some of the most brilliant writing I’ve encountered in years—writing in the form of an essay by a favorite English prof at my alma mater, a professor now exactly my brother-in-law’s age; an essay about the professor’s near fatal accident in the wilderness, his miraculous rescue and unimaginably restorative medical care and convalescence, all described with the rarest of literary virtuosity. (The essay had reached me via yet another friend/classmate, who’d received it from our Philadelphia lawyer friend/classmate.) I sent the essay to my brother-in-law—the English major—to give him courage and inspiration as he faces his own challenging encounter with medical care. (He read it immediately and wrote back, “marvelous writing.”)
And then came word about another friend; a poet and Renaissance Man if ever one lived; word of his medical challenge of which till yesterday I’d not been aware in the course of his recent, daily, uplifting missives giving me the support and encouragement that he now needs—and will receive in double the dose—from me.
Adding to yesterday’s feast of exchanges was a text from a long-time client, whose ever alert and cheerful, non-judgmental disposition sees human foibles not as such but as a source of joy and humor.
Beyond this multitude of connections within my world are innumerable interactions among billions of other people; interactions that in a universe governed by a different laws of physics and allowing human immortality, would produce riches in excess of the wealth of Mansa Musa times infinity.
The world with all its troubles and travails, dangers and disturbances, is still the home of beauty beyond the power of art or words. And among the planet’s many fools and evil hearts, dwell in far greater numbers, I’m convinced, the most amazing hearts and minds that can ever be imagined by poet or painter.
As to the title of this post . . . it was to have described its content, but I immediately digressed. To entice you back with curiosity aroused, “Camping Supplies” now describes tomorrow’s subject—barring further diversions. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
