DAY 20: PRECISION VS. PERFECTION

SEPTEMBER 12, 2022 – (Cont.) Given the number of blood test results I’ve viewed recently, I’ve gained a new appreciation for precision. Hemoglobin of 10.0, compared to 9.5 the day before, for example; and platelets of 147 vs. 98. Or the nurse’s expertise in clearing my port line, completing the task faster than I can tie my shoelaces. These and a thousand other scientific components of my treatment are among the elements of precision associated with the extension of . . . life.

But where does one go for perfection? It seems to elude us at every turn, despite the common Millennial use of “perfect” in acknowledgment of mundane information—as in, “What’s your name?” – “Eric.” – “Purr-fect!” Not only is perfection elusive, but it’s subjective. What one person deems a “perfect” Italian dinner is quite a different experience to a diner with higher standards or a dislike for cuisine centered upon pasta.

But then a monkey wrench is hurled into the works. “Perfection”?! Really? The diagnosis I received the first week of this year derailed all perfection in my life.

As I went for my daily walk this morning and admired the natural beauty along my route, I contemplated the concept of the perfect life. What is the perfect life, anyway? How would a person achieve it, sustain it? Or more precisely, how would a person define it?

If I couldn’t settle on any kind of reasonable answer, I did observe an instructive example of perfection, which, in turn, led to a revelatory notion.

Along the boulevard, nestled against the base of a big shade tree was a gnome home designed and built by a neighbor. It was entirely her own creation, made mostly of natural materials, including a birchbark roof. I knelt down for a closer look, snapped a picture, and decided—here was perfection; perfection in the eye of the beholder, a person for whom perfection has been redefined, thanks to a face-to-face encounter with mortality.

As I continued my walk, the gnome home, perfect mostly because of its imperfect, curling birchbark top, reminded me of the recordings of Rubinstein playing Chopin’s two concertos—recordings I’d listened to a few days ago. I recalled how Rubinstein, famous for “dropping notes,” had remarked in a 1972 NYT interview that he skipped notes as a natural consequence of his unique method of drawing heart and soul from the music (hands higher off the keyboard), or, more precisely, his way of giving heart and soul to the music. No other human—apart from Chopin himself, perhaps?—has  been able to attain such musical perfection in rendering the music of Chopin. Ironically, Rubinstein’s perfection was linked to imprecision. By the end of the block, I realized that Rubinstein’s interpretation of Chopin was metaphorical: If we look beyond our imperfections, we can discover perfection in our lives.

My recall of The Times interview reminded me of New York City, which prompted a thought about my good friend James Oppenheim, who lives there. We were close friends in high school, then went decades without contact. Years ago, we reconnected by way of my New Yorker-sister Jenny, who’d also known James in high school. After my diagnosis, more regular communication developed between James and me. In the days leading up to my BMT (bone marrow transplant) and since, James has called nearly every day. Our long-standing friendship has deepened remarkably. I like to think he’s mining at least half as much wealth as I’m drawing from our wide-ranging conversations. As lawyers both—let alone, as human beings—we are by definition, imperfect individuals. Yet our friendship embodies perfection.

As I crossed the street to our block, I felt overwhelming gratitude for the many friends and healthcare providers who sustain and illuminate my life. In my friendships and associations with such caring, gracious, interesting people, I’ve found . . . the perfect life. (Cont.)

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson