AUGUST 21, 2022 – (Cont.) Whenever I enter the U of MN Cancer Center, I’m awed by a number of things, such as the cheerfulness of the mask-monitor-greeters and check-in staff, and . . . who thought of placing a high-end player piano at the top of the “grand stairway” leading from the lobby to the . . . second . . . floor, where most of my appointments are? (Answer: the University’s School of Music and a donor with a name reflecting the heritage of many outstate, elderly patients, the quintessentially Swedish, “Olson.”)
But I’m also awed by the diversity of patients (outside of the rural contingent), though as you might expect, most fall within the upper decades of the age spectrum. I’m curious about every one of these people—current residency, place of origin, family relationships, education and vocational background, likes and dislikes, interests and curiosities, life stories and strivings, and everything more. But most of all, what are these people thinking and feeling, and how are they dealing with their disease and how are they responding to treatment?
The other day, I found myself walking behind an older couple. They moved at a slow pace, requiring me to slow my own gait before I could pass them. As I waited for oncoming people to walk by us, I noticed the gentleman was stooped by age and eras past but still impressively tall and commanding stature. Perhaps it was his old and rumpled suit—attire rarely seen anywhere these days—combined with soft and quiet shoes, or maybe it was his somewhat gangly arms, that gave him a cerebral bearing. My initial speculation was affirmed when I noticed the dark-covered hardback that he gripped in his large left hand.
His wispy, thinning hair and the fact his wife (I assumed) was half a step ahead of him told me that he, not she, was undergoing treatment.
In the moment before I switched unmarked lanes to pass this couple, I wondered what the man’s vocational work might’ve been—past tense, for his combined aspects suggested he was well into retirement. Was he professor emeritus of anthropology who waxed eloquent in a deep bass voice in front of one spellbound generation of undergraduates after another, or was he an esteemed member of the Physics Department, with such a command of his subject, he drew applause after scribbling complex formulae across the blackboard of old? Or perhaps he’d been the guru of estate planning in some blue stocking law firm, a revered member of the bar who for years had advised the local aristocracy in their effort to protect massive amounts of wealth from taxation–and spendthrift scoundrels among their descendants, yet, a man whose real interest was Shakespeare, or . . . was he the holder of patents for complex innovations in mechanical engineering—issued a generation and a half ago with revolutionary effect upon our jaded selves?
I couldn’t imagine him as a physician, accountant or insurance salesman or anything so down to earth or in your face, down your throat or up some other orifice.
The book, I decided, as much as his own appearance, would reveal the most about him. He must be, I thought, a man of inquiry, at least; of intellect, perhaps; a man of knowledge, analysis, and deep understanding, quite possibly; but in what area of interest or field of endeavor?
As I stepped out to pass the couple, my curiosity shifted from the man to his book, then back to the man. If I could see the title of the book, I thought, it would tell me volumes about the man. Was it fiction or non-fiction? A classic novel or an anthology of poetry? Did it feature current events or was it an historical tome? Some grand survey of human events or the history of an era by way of a sweeping biography?
The arm of the man’s suit coat was every bit as long as his actual appendage, such that the dark blue fabric fell upon his large hand and over the edge of the book. Reconnaissance wouldn’t be easy. To render the mission more difficult was the book jacket design—dark, with jumbled imagery. But the cover art was not enough to obscure the title . . .
It wasn’t The Life of Charlemagne nor was it LBJ: Master of the Senate. Neither Quantum Mechanics Transformed nor Homer and Shakespeare: A Comparative Study; neither Wordsworth nor Woodward nor a work of exegesis on the Gospel of St. John. It was, my curious reader . . .
As I said at the outset, as I enter the U of MN Cancer Center, I’m awed by many things. On that day especially, I was awed by the title of that book in the authoritative grip of that doubtless cerebral man of scholarship.
The title was . . .
. . . one to trigger surprise and delight of the highest order; one to spark the mind and imagination and more important, to inspire hope and faith in the human heart, despite our foibles and failings; a title that as I passed this aged couple, gave me the feeling of youth unfettered and unending; a subject that lifted my spirits like a spring robin taking flight; a matter deep and magical and oh, so ever mysterious; one carrying me out the door of a cancer clinic (for crying out loud!), and into the sun-washed day of life renewed!
The title, my dear reader, was . . .
. . . are you ready for riveting revelation? . . .
. . . ahem . . .
. . . uh . . .
. . . mmm . . .
. . . it was . . .
HARRY POTTER. (Cont.)
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
