“Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body,” goes a line in a short story* by James Joyce. That’s how I’ve been living ever since the heart attack: in my body and yet apart from it. The bodily machinery, always taken for granted, has sent me a message, “I’m not made of stone. I won’t last forever.”
No wonder I’m bewildered.
I avoid talking to people, wake up from drowning-dreams, spend hours watching lone athletes during the Olympic Games, and have become fascinated by first-person accounts of war-time struggles. I’m surprised how the following events, recorded over 70 years ago, speak directly to my current state of disarray.**
Hiding inside their ancestral home, a family awaits the arrival of foreign troops. First, the deafening echo of tank guns, then coarse shouts and boots clattering up the stairs. Next, the door bursts open, soldiers charge into the room, shots are fired overhead, and plaster rains from the ceiling.
“Strange how one registers such an event,” the narrator recalls. “One’s consciousness and identity seem to split. One half holds on firmly, digs in, finally withdraws deep into the recesses of the body, into the pit of the stomach or under the pounding heart, from where it responds almost automatically, literally in the flesh. Meanwhile the other half flits off and observes from a distance. It keeps very still; you are hardly aware of it, and the more dramatic events become, the more unobtrusive it gets.”
People who encounter death with their eyes wide open sing to each other across time and space.
*”A Painful Case,” in Dubliners (1914). **Christian von Krockow. (1991). Hour of the women. Trans. from German. HarperCollins, p. 49. Image credit.
Dear Peter,
Just one breath. Anything more is terrifying:)
Peter, I wonder if we become our own guides at these times, even within the seeming disconnect of body and mind – in the sense of letting our body know we love and want the best for ourselves. For me, it seems that I need to tell my “self” (body and mind) that I am here and want to feed and care for me. As Rita says, just one breath, small steps, the daily steps of life. I just speak for my experience lately, in bereavement.
Bereavement — losses and insights, both deep and precious.
Dear Peter, Tried to send by email, but bounced back. Your writing is beautiful! expressing that which we all want to avoid but which we will all experience, in one form or another. I look forward to you next missive. Not your time yet, though, I think, just a shot across the bow! In my superstitious way, I think (and have observed in a very small N) we get two shots across the bow and then its three strikes and we’re out. Probably just more mental crap, but then is not mental crap just as much of who we are as the flower outside our window?
May you regain your confidence in and love of that old friend, your body, for however long or short you will be traveling together. May you be happy and at ease! Excuse the ramblings of this old man! love to you, Arnie
2 shots, 3 strikes — I’m going for 9 lives. Love you and your oldman’s ramblings.
Dearest Peter, I’m so glad you are on the mend! Take care and know “this too shall pass.” Please consider the caridio rehab program offered through the Jubilee hospital. I went three years ago, and have once again signed up for the maintenance program to begin Feb 1. The body’s resilience is amazing!
May you be at ease.
Carol
“People who encounter death with their eyes wide open sing to each other across time and space.” Love.