StoryCorps, one of the many programs I listen to on NPR, almost invariably moves me emotionally. Simple stories that emphasize the importance and value of human connections tend to make me focus on important matters that are easy to overlook in the chaos of daily life. I listened this morning to a couple of StoryCorps programs. One involved a former inmate, now a death doula, who spoke of his purpose for taking on the role. Another one involved sisters Mai Lo Lee and Beth Lo, who grew up in a large Hmong family on a ginseng farm in Wisconsin after their family escaped the horrors of the war in Viet Nam. Short snippets in which scenes from the past are revealed to have thought-provoking meaning can keep my mind occupied for days on end, trying to understand how brief stories can impact me so thoroughly.
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Roughly seven months have passed since I learned that my lung cancer had returned after five years of “clear” CT scans and blood tests. I think it was less than a month earlier that I had my chemo port removed from the left side of my chest. A few weeks later, I had a new report installed in the right side of my chest to replace the one that had recently been extracted. I hoped at the time my recovery would be like the first time; fast and seemingly permanent. But the first time my circumstances were suitable for surgery and radiation, along with chemotherapy. The second time, neither surgery nor radiation would be useful. And chemotherapy—originally planned to last about as long as the first time—in this most recent situation would take more time and would not yield the immediate hoped=for good news. Seven months in, I do not have a long-term prognosis…nor a formal short-term prognosis (though short term, at least, is probably pretty good). So many people have it so much worse than I; I have no business feeling pessimistic or depressed when far too many people cannot get any treatment because financial or other constraints make it impossible. I should attempt to emulate people who confront such situations with energy, enthusiasm, and positivity. Not only would I feel better, I would feel more confident in myself and in the long-term outcome of the effort to vanquish the disease. Perhaps it’s the lengthy wait between full-throated treatments (three weeks) that gets me down. Time is subject to manipulation, if approached from the right perspective; I will approach it from that perspective. I have choices. I will make the right ones.
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My introduction to the unreliability and impermanence of friendship took place from my last two years of high school through the college years. That was the introduction; the lesson was etched eternally into my psyche in the years that followed. Slowly—or maybe abruptly—five guys who constituted my circle of friends disappeared from that sphere. Two of them had been close friends since elementary school. There was no sudden rupture in the friendships. One or more of us—or all of us—simply changed. I remember being surprised and disappointed, as the five of us began to go our own ways, that the bond of friendship was not close to as strong as I had believed it to be. But at the time, I doubt I was consciously aware of the depths of my disappointment with my misunderstanding of the very concept of friendship. That came a little later, when I found myself hesitant to open up to potential new friendships. What I had assumed would be lifelong connections could simply disappear. Investing emotionally in friendships would not lead to strong bonds; it would have been more like throwing money into a slot machine that never paid out. Except money has no emotional value, whereas friendships might. When, several years later, I contacted my old friends, the reception was cool…standoffish….suspicious. The relationships had not survived time and distance. I suppose I might not have been the only one surprised at the lack of interest and familiarity. After all, my old friends were not the only ones who simply allowed our long-term friendships to turn to stale vapor. By the time one reaches middle age and beyond, most friendships that might last have already been established. The likelihood that emotional investments beyond those years will be stable or grow diminishes; so exposing oneself to the increasing likelihood of disappointment becomes a risk that may not be worth taking.
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Dreams punctuate long periods of unconsciousness, but they leave only shreds of meaningless stories in their wake. Everything has meaning, though, right? So the stories are mysterious, not meaningless. If one could unravel their mysteries, a person might understand their meanings. Some dreams seem to consist of two-dimensional stories told through the placement of multiple layers of thin, translucent films placed on top of one another. A layer five levels deep may seem familiar, but is insufficient by itself to clearly express meaning. Frustration builds as layer two disappears and layer three melts into the strata beneath it.
