In September of last year my oldest friend, a high-school chum named Dave for the purposes of this article, had a stroke. We’ve known each other for 43 years. In 1990 I officiated at his wedding, on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, in my capacity as minister in the Universal Life Church. I must’ve done a good job, too, because they’re still together. I spent the worst months of last winter in his RV, in Cal-nevari, Nevada.
Dave turned 61 in March, and is back to work in a revised capacity. He survived his stroke, but not without lasting damage. He will soon be losing his job due to his failing vision. In a recent email he wrote, “My eyesight is terrible, and I’m impotent. In constant pain, can barely walk. Most of my income will be going to medical bills for years to come. I’m not a happy person these days.”
Well, hell, what do you say to that? I would spare my friend his anguish if I could. If you’re me, though, what can you say? I live in a car and have to hide like a fugitive at night to avoid the police. My car smells like dirty laundry and I need a shower so bad that my skin hurts. I want to work, but can’t get a job because I’m unfit for physical labor (bad knee, overweight), and poorly rested (lucky to get a few hours of sleep at a stretch). A happy person I also am not. My suffering is largely psychological, as opposed to Dave’s, which is mostly physical. We each have a bit of both, no doubt. Hard to say which is worse.
Thankfully, it’s not a competition. He livesindoors, but beyond that he hasn’t got much else on me as far as I can tell. Dave’s favorite pre-stroke pastimes were walking (miles and days on end, he was like a mountain goat) and drinking beer, and now he can’t do either. My liberties and comforts are equally restricted. We sympathize, yet are unable to offer one another much hope or consolation. Maybe Dave and I are equals in our despairing. I can’t really presume to speak for my friend, but for myself, it’s long uphill climb from here, even to level ground, where things might stand a chance of improving. And it’s windy out here.
Pain is too subjective to compare one case to the other. A starving child is a horrific thing. A sick older person dying alone and forgotten is a horrific thing. An innocent man in prison, the self-loathing and confused, a citizen of a war-torn country — heartfelt pain is heartfelt pain. While surely some circumstances are more dire than others, only the subject knows what they feel.
It comes down to human resilience, and whatever momentary solace one can find. Music, a baby’s laughter, a cat’s purr. Flowers, fantasy, fireworks. A good meal, a cold beer. A commiserative email. Sometimes that’s all there is to cling to. Sometimes that’s enough, for a while. Whatever gets you through the night.
Just try to make sure that whatever temporary consolation you find doesn’t kill you. Fentanyl is very probably a bad choice. Dangerous sexual practices are ill-advised. Overeating leads nowhere you want to go. Driving your Dodge Hellcat like you surrendered your frontal lobe as a down payment is, well, dumb.
Note: If what gets you through the night is physical or psychological cruelty or violence against another living thing, get out of there immediately. Don’t stop to apologize or pack a bag, just stop. One way or another. Turn yourself in. Seek counseling. Summon up the last dregs of your honor and do whatever it is you must to stop yourself. No excuses.
Because the sun always comes up, assuming we survive our own desperation, and reveals that the reality we managed to forget for a time still remains. There are horrors aplenty, and all around. If you are persecuted, hunted, infirm, misrepresented, hated, misunderstood, marginalized and in pain, you are very far from alone. We should form a club. Such a club already exists, in a way, I suppose. It meets, informally, every day. There are no dues, but there are requirements to join: tolerance, and the courage to be vulnerable. Call the club Compassion. We need a secret handshake or something, though, because I look damned goofy in tie-dye.
