DAY 21: MALAISE CUT SHORT

SEPTEMBER 13, 2022 – (Cont.) The dream last night must’ve been triggered by yesterday’s appointment with Dr. O’Leary, “BMT doc of the month.” I’d met the good doctor on the day of my “chemo-blast.” Back then, Dr. O’Leary, a bit of a killjoy though a life-long downhill skier, had told me I’d have to give up downhill skiing. When I met with him yesterday, I don’t think he recognized me—the Franz Liszt/Albert Einstein/Bozo-the-Clown “do” that I’d sported that day three weeks ago is down to a “buzz cut,” thanks to nurse Kristie, who’d applied her tonsorial skills during my five-day stay aboard the “cruise ship” (University hospital).

“Doctor,” I said, “if you’ll recall, on the day of my ‘chemo-blast,’ you told me to give up downhill skiing. I got over the shock and decided to take up golf. Do you golf?”

“No,” he said, pushing his arm out of his sleeve and extra inch or two to reveal more of his white wrist. “I’m fair and need to avoid the sun.” As I said, he’s a bit of a killjoy.

But back to the dream . . . my skiing buddy—downhill and x-c—Mark, his wife Phyllis, and their champion x-c skiing younger son, Christian, were headed to our house to pick me up for a day of downhill skiing at Afton Alps, a local ski area, er, ski bump. I was more excited about seeing them than I was about skiing. Nevertheless, I welcomed the chance to ski “the bump,” just for the satisfaction of interweaving S-turns with Mark (as we have in inexhaustible Montana powder) down a slope dropping off the edge of a cornfield and down a ravine—the rather peculiar configuration euphemistically billed as the “Alps.”

My skiing companions were scheduled to arrive within an hour, and in this given time, I rounded up my gear, though I had difficulty finding my ski boots—which, in the dream, were a pair that dated back to my college days. I also came upon a large cellophane bag of donuts in our kitchen—perfect soul-ski food. But as the hour drew to a close, I found myself losing my enthusiasm altogether—for the donuts as well as the skiing. I realized how ill-advised it would be to ride in close quarters without everyone being triple-masked; then I considered the lift-lines, the chairlift rides, and again, exposure to Covid. I knew the donuts wouldn’t feel as good as they tasted. I thought about phoning my friends to tell them I’d drive separately. But why ski at all? To make five turns on a lame 50-foot pitch that then yields to a gradual slope down the remaining 350 vertical feet to the bottom of “the mountain” where we’d stand in line for 10 minutes for a two-minute ride back to the top?

I decided to bail altogether. Gone was all desire for a sport that was once my obsession. I woke up with a start. What had become of me and my zest for life? Why be defeated by the “fake” Alps, when the real Alps beckon?

Later this morning, I remained in a funk. I couldn’t believe it, and I wasn’t about to cut myself any slack; got to be strong, I told myself, and a source of encouragement for people whom I know are struggling and can use all the support I can provide.

While talking with my therapist this afternoon (via video conference), I uncovered a source of this apparent malaise: not Dr. Killjoy and the downer ski dream but the passing of Queen Elizabeth II and the public reaction in the United Kingdom. But why? She’d died at 96 after an exemplary life and reign, and her death wasn’t preceded by an agonizing process—debilitating stroke; protracted dementia; a long descent into dark, fathomless suffering. She’d lived and died in a way most humans couldn’t hope to mimic despite their mightiest wishes. Taking an entirely cynical view, she represented a history of oppression and inhumane treatment of imperial subjects. So why does her death make us sad—and why should this be a source of my own malaise?

I settled on the fact that no human—neither the healthiest nor wealthiest nor the otherwise most fortunate nor even a monarch of the highest, longest, grandest rank—can avoid the inevitable. This is the paradox of the human condition, for if we were to live for 500 years, let alone indefinitely, our existence would surely be robbed of meaning and purpose. Moreover, society would become top-heavy and intractably ossified. We and our works would turn to lifeless, loveless stone, giving no quarter to rebirth and regeneration. We’d descend into a hellish realm devoid of oxygen and lose our humanity by suffocation.

And so, I think, it is okay to be sad, to experience malaise from a sense of loss, for only in the absence of love is there no bereavement. But my funk must soon be abandoned: I have miles to go, love to give and receive, and beauty to behold. I have a life to live, a life to celebrate. (Cont.)

(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)

© 2022 by Eric Nilsson