The Taming of the Blue

It's been a little over a year since I wrote my History Repeating post about the plague that engulfed Europe in 1347. Like a number of essays on this blog, it was inspired by a show on the History Channel, which just happened to air again yesterday.

I was just as fascinated with the program as I was 13 months ago, but what was even more intriguing was my very different response to it this time around.

Last year at this time, I was in such a state of profound questioning about God, railing against life's unfairness, and feeling that I'd somehow been singled out by my creator to suffer extreme and unending pain for reasons known only to him. My intellect grappled with this daily, on the one hand clearly seeing that I was just an unfortunate victim of circumstance, but on the other, feeling some deep sense of deserving this punishment, and maybe more hopefully, feeling that this was part of some divine plan designed to teach me something profound.

In hindsight, no matter how you look at it, any response I was having was tremendously self-centered, and I say that not as a self-criticism, but as a simple, if uncomfortable, observation.

Of course, it's natural to focus entirely on oneself when physical agony sets the tone for the day, but all that grappling with profound questions has led me to a curious state of being indeed, and one that I didn't at all expect, for in all my questioning about God, the place I'm being led is not to the heavens, but back to earth, upon which I feel like I'm walking for the very first time.

I've always been somewhat of a heady character, and in fact used to joke that my body was the thing that simply carried my head around. In being a creative person absorbed in the arts, I was always writing songs or painting pictures, and when I wasn't doing that, I was pondering the after-effects of therapy in order to unravel a more happy existence. In short, my head was in some very stormy clouds nearly all of the time, and the world around me was something I witnessed but kept at a distance, as I was the star of the show, so to speak, slightly removed and certainly above the mundane world of ordinary folks.

In short, I suppose I was something of a snob, albeit a nice one, but my niceness in no way affected my ambitions to be bigger, bolder and better in nearly everything I did.

What a moron.

I can see this so clearly now, and while a little embarrassed by it, I couldn't be more thankful that this old crusty cloak is slowly disintegrating all around me, and I do have to wonder if this horrible, awful, painful ordeal has had anything to do with it.

Two weeks ago, I had yet another surgery on my jaw, and by all accounts, it seems that my attempts to rid myself of pain have failed yet again. In fact, I may have even made matters worse, as the wound and bone refuse to heal.

This landed me at a local hospital's wound center last week, where I'm on deck (if Medicare approves it) to receive treatment in a hyperbaric chamber, which will be six weeks of being locked in a pressurized glass tube three hours a day. I'm told that this will force more oxygen into my system, thus destroying all bacteria and fostering growth of new blood vessels. Apparently, my chances are 50/50 in terms of pain relief, which before might have depressed me, but now...well...I'm not sure it matters which way the wind blows.

I felt this same way just before my surgery, in fact, which was in such stark contrast to so many of the other surgeries these past five years. I used to pray so hard for a positive outcome, only to be devastated when those prayers weren't answered. In many ways, I felt exactly like the plague victims, who turned to God and their faith for relief from their terrorizing torture, only to be ignored and left to their own devices. Clearly, the god of their understanding became irrelevant when it really counted, just like my own understanding of God and faith faltered when the going got tough.

When I take a closer look, I can see now that I was asking all the wrong questions and focusing on (and praying for) all the wrong things. While it was certainly appropriate and understandable for me to rage at my fate, I can see now that this ordeal has taken me completely out of my head and landed me squarely on my feet, where I now feel the dirt and sand between my toes in ways I never have before.

What's so startling is how I now move in my world. Despite the pain, no matter where I go, I seem to laugh and talk with just about everyone, and I'm quick to help when I see someone in a jam, whether it be a mother struggling to get her baby stroller up the subway steps, or an old lady waiting in the rain at a bus stop, who I pick up and drive home. I hate to think that I didn't help in these ways before, but what I'm guessing is that I just didn't see these situations, as I was too blinded by heady concepts and my own ambition.

In a waiting room the other day, for example, I began playing with three little brothers as if I'd known them my whole life, and in short order had everyone in the room laughing with our antics. The connection was instant, strong and barrier-free. I complimented their mom and dad on their beautiful family, and was warmed by the very thought of these three little devils for the rest of the day.

This may not sound like a big deal, but I can't really remember this ever happening before. When I say I talk with and smile at everyone, I mean everyone, and this glorious, bustling city I live in provides ample opportunity to flex my new friendly and outgoing muscles. I crack wise with cops and politicians, I have coffee with artist friends at local cafes, and I thank my bus driver after every single ride.

Oddly enough, as I write this, I'm actually having a very bad day. The pain is as bad as it ever was, which often leads to combustible outbursts of tears and long periods of sleep.

In a sense, the malaise and sadness about this condition haven't changed, but what has changed is that I don't expect to not suffer anymore. When I look at the world at large, either now or in the past, great suffering certainly isn't anything new, or anything unique to me. Maybe the trick to my ultimate contentment will be to be at rest with what is and to use that as the stuff of glorious, creative absorption, which is, of course, the ultimate painkiller.

It sounds so simple, but it's quite hard for me not to define myself by my accomplishments. No wonder this pain has caused such suffering on so many levels, as it has forced me to sit still and think, to rest, to just be. For so long, I felt like my accomplishments had to be huge in order for them to matter to the world, to make a difference. I'm only beginning to see that a smile exchange with just one person can light a spark for us both that can illuminate an entire hour, or more.

I should know in a day or two if Medicare will approve the hyperbaric treatment. If that does happen, I'm not expecting much, other than some claustrophobia and maybe some nice encounters with staff, who I suspect I'll get to know quite well. Maybe there'll be some kids in the waiting room.


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A Toll On My Soul

I was procrastinating on Saturday, as usual, so when I went to pick up my pain medication at the pharmacy across the street, I found that they'd closed a little early, and I was absolutely freaked that I wouldn't have enough meds for the following day, yesterday (Sunday).

For someone in chronic pain, narcotic meds are a type of deal with the devil, for on the one hand, they provide a certain amount of relief and respite--a sense of control over miserable circumstances--but on the other, they rob you of your normal emotions, even if, like me, you don't necessarily feel high anymore (not unless you take too much, which I've been wont to do now and then).

When I saw I had just one 10 mg Oxycontin pill yesterday morning, I knew it wouldn't be enough for the day and this made me nervous, but what was actually disturbing was the realization of how much a part of me these pills have become.

While they do ease the pain somewhat, they also take a toll on my soul, and it's hard to imagine life without them now. In a strange way, they fill the space that is the loneliness one feels with chronic pain. When I take my pills, the world is a little brighter, a little softer, and I'm happy to passively sit back and let it pass me by. But it's never without some regret, for when I watch TV, it's like I'm watching others live life for me, and I'm envious of their healthy, vibrant lives.

If it's a true crime show, I wonder what it's like to passionately catch crooks all day; if it's a TV drama, I wonder what it's like to live the life of a successful, creative actor; if it's a reality show...well, OK, I rarely envy those folks, especially any of those Real Housewives babes. If I lived in a world where I ever had to go to a "big hat luncheon," I'd slit my wrists. But I do envy their healthy, pain-free life.

In the past few months, I've even become something of a recluse, which is just plain weird for me, considering my personality. But the pills actually make watching lots of TV interesting, which is what I learned yesterday, as without the pills I was absolutely bored to tears by just about everything. I almost didn't know what to do with all the time, not because of the pain so much, but because I no longer recognized myself. Spitfire Mary Ann has turned into a human lump on the couch. I didn't even feel like shaving my head, which is saying something, because I always get a big kick out of that.

I can tell I'm withering, as I now shave my noggin every two weeks or so, as opposed to every five days. I used to love the fiery feelings my hairless dome would bring up--such adventure, such mischief--but it's as though there's few feelings at all anymore, except exhaustion from all this endurance.

I have to remind myself that I haven't given up--that the therapies I've set in motion take time to come to fruition. Hopefully, I'll get accepted into NYU's psychoanalytic program, so that I can probe the mind/body connection in all this, and once that happens, I'll have more surgery. I want to do things differently this time. I want to be more aware of what's happening in my subconscious before I go under the knife again, which is a curious goal considering I really have no feelings to report, other than an opinion on that cool Chariots of the Gods show on the History Channel yesterday, which wasn't boring at all.

I have to admit; watching all those talking heads speaking so enthusiastically about the possibility of ancient aliens made me wonder what it's like to be an anthropologist. Who would I be without all the pain, all the pills?

It's a beautiful, sunny day today, but it may as well be raining, 'cause I doubt I'll be going out. I know I should push myself, but I'm no longer chasing my dreams and passions anymore. I'm instead running from the monster as fast as I can, only to find he's keeping up quite well and resting comfortably, in fact, in my own body. The only ammo I've got is this friggin' pill, which tames him temporarily, but tames me, too. I'm just so sick of all this crap, all this pain, all this confusion, all these pills.

Now where's the remote?

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Life In The Penumbra

Today is Sunday, and I woke up feeling somewhat better. I took some Xanax yesterday, which scares me as benzodiazapenes have the potential of permanently scarring the brain, but drugs in the Valium family are known for their pain-relieving properties for facial pain. I don't have the same addiction issues with Xanax as I do with opiates--for some odd reason, addiction to that drug has never set in. I use it sparingly as I'm so leery of it, but what relief it can bring, even a small dose.

I tend to flog myself when I resort to any type of pain meds, thinking that I should be stronger in character to overcome things through mental means, but that's just as nuts as taking too much of something. The cliche "happy medium" comes to mind here--a concept I should perhaps consider more, if that's even possible for an addict.

I got up around nine, and after making my morning coffee, I popped on the TV, and there was that History Channel show again about the plague in Europe in the 1350s. As it has before, this show gives me great comfort, because it's a story about human suffering on an unimaginable scale--a story that was recorded with the written word (as opposed to similar human die-offs like the peoples of Central America who succumbed to European diseases in the 1500s).

It reinforced the notion that the scale of human suffering can vary wildly. Some go through life with the ordinary trials and tribulations of the human condition, while others suffer in such grotesque ways that we avert our eyes, as such unfairness is unthinkable.

Perhaps this is the reason for the current popularity of the philosophical/spiritual concept of the Law of Attraction, which seems to be taking root everywhere. While this idea has been around for ages, current books like "The Secret" have become red-hot bestsellers as they offer people a greater sense of control over what happens to them if they can just "vibrate" and visualize differently in their thoughts and actions. They have faith that if they expect more of life, they will get it, and surely there is some wisdom in this.

When one stops and thinks about it, it really should come as no surprise that this "law" contains such truth, as the evidence for it is all around us. We all know someone who had an ideal upbringing and marches into their adulthood having a natural love of themselves and others. They often find love and success early in life, and clearly it's because they're unencumbered by the baggage that plagues the person who suffered horrendous abuse in childhood, be it emotional, physical or sexual.

When survivors of these diabolical ravages begin to come of age, their view of the world and of themselves is grossly distorted, and much of their energies, if not all of it at times, is spent trying to repair the damage that never should have occurred in the first place. Yet at the same time, they must also embark on developing the survival skills that any human needs so that take can care of themselves and their families (provided they have the emotional stability to even have a family), and to lead an independent life.

For these folks (myself being one), the Law of Attraction provides a new hope and a clear map towards a better existence, whereby we can consciously tap into the power of expectation, which seems to come so easily to the products of happy childhoods.

Yet there is also a grave danger in thinking this law so absolute, for when bad things happen to good people, we can easily slip into the "blame the victim" mentality. If a child is kidnapped and killed, parents can wonder where their thinking went wrong that allowed this to happen. If we are felled by a disease that causes lifelong crippling, we can blame ourselves that we didn't visualize hard enough to prevent this terrible event.

I suppose my point is that there are limits to everything, and that there are no absolute truths in life, for if there were, we would indeed have complete control over everything that happens to both us and the ones we love just by creating a pretty picture in our heads.

A few years ago, I had a lovely friendship with a woman, Elle, who actually started out as a fan of my music. We had a long discussion over dinner one evening about my work and about art in general, and I attempted to explain what art was for me, and that I knew it when I created it.

I said that the click happened when my song was somehow able to encompass a broader statement about life than what was there on the surface. If it was a happy tune, there was also an aching sadness just below the surface, and if it was a sad song, there was a foundation of hope somewhere deep inside it.

Elle (who has a massive IQ) explained it much better. She said that art and music like this exists in the "penumbra" (which Webster's defines as "a space of partial illumination between the perfect shadow on all sides and the full light") and that this is the area in which the Supreme Court grapples with its decisions in order to find truth. It's never precisely in one location, but rather in the grey area between light and shadow.

I never forgot her explanation, as I'd discovered this heady concept all on my own in my dogged attempts to write something so seemingly simple as a pop song. It's wonderful when humans from such varied backgrounds can come to such similar conclusions via completely different routes.

I don't see Elle as much these days, as she's suffering greatly herself, only her trial is full-blown multiple sclerosis, and she's attempting, quite valiantly, to find her own comfortable place in the penumbra.

For both of us, the shadows in our lives are quite dark indeed. But I like to believe that it's in such a state of darkness that any light is best seen, provided we choose to open our eyes.

In a world where there seems to be no absolute truths right now, I suppose that's one truth I can count on.

Hope springs eternal.


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History Repeating

The History Channel had a show on about the plague this afternoon. Half the population of Europe died because of it, and the surviving population was devastated psychologically as a result, questioning the meaning of life. I get this. Families watched one another die tortured, agonzing, senseless deaths. Talk about misery.

Not surprisingly, they all thought God was punishing their evil ways, but in watching this show with the wisdom of hindsight, it's clear that it was just a tragic thing that, well, happened. It wasn't God; it was a pathogen that half the people couldn't fight off. It spread from England to China, and some Christian Europeans began flagellating themselves, thinking that maybe inflicting more suffering on their bodies would somehow stop the insanity.

In my own case, I sometimes think God is punishing me, too, for some evil deed committed in maybe a previous life, or that he's trying to teach me a lesson that I somehow refuse to learn.

But if I'm going to learn anything from history, sometimes things just, well, happen. There's nothing inherently good or bad to the event. As humans, we're simply organisms prone to infection, like bugs, or dogs, or even the dinosaurs, who could actually get cancer.

Many desperately want to believe that things like disease happen to us because of stress, unresolved rage, because we're not spiritual enough, or because we're not understanding the mind/body connection. While there may be some truth to this, another truth is that bad things do indeed happen to good people for no reason at all. Accidents happen, disease happens, as does death. There's no escaping it. Believing there's reasons for it is simply a vain attempt to control it. If we can blame the patient somehow, then we think it won't happen to us.

The History Channel ended on a positive note, saying that the plague ushered in a new era of thinking. People began questioning the Church's authority, now defining God for themselves, and because of the loss of the work force, labor-saving machines were invented that were the very beginnings of the industrial age.

The most positive thing that developed was the beginning of the Renaissance--a rebirth of art, culture and science.

Like the plague survivors, I don't know about this God thing either. But I'm certainly not going to flagellate myself, nor blame anyone else for my misery. (The Christian flagellators actually blamed the Jews for the catastrophe.) The best I can hope for is some kind of rebirth of my own...a new person that will rise from the wreckage.

That's hard to fathom at the moment, as I'm still swirling in a haze of pain and addiction. The plague had to run its course, and perhaps my own dark days have to run theirs, as well. This has been going on for an awful long time, though. Years now.

I'm exhausted.