Thursday, May 2, 2013

A Short Reprieve

This week I returned to the National Institute of Health for a series of exams to determine if my illness is still stable. It is not, and since the treatment isn't working, I'm no longer in the clinical trial. It was a short reprieve, but I feel the doctors in Bethesda did their best.

None the less, I'm pleased that spring has finally arrived. One of my children is getting her PhD later this month, and my family plans to all get together to celebrate her achievement.


Barry Jaffe said...


I think about you very, very often. So many occasions furnish the opportunity to do so. Today they were my annual physical, and then the first appearances of green on the trees that I briefly encountered as I took the shortcut from the commuter lot on S. State Street to the building in which I spend 14 hours a day, some 9 feet under the ground. The next occasions were the need for artificial heat in the office where you taught me how to meditate, and where I unintentionally eased you into sleep on a small "beach" on one of the Hawaiian islands. The next opportunity resided in the notion of utilizing your suggestion that I convert my lines of poetry into something less formulaic.

Instead of:

"There is a place upon a hill
On which my mother's spirit still
Adores the luscious greens of Spring
And flowers that warm breezes bring."

How about:

Even though my eyes no longer behold her, I strongly sense my mother - sitting on top of her favorite hill, intoxicated by the long-missed fragrances of an early Spring, ushered lovingly to her by a generous and inspired warm breeze.

The next occasions were the e-mail from Diane, your most recent blog entry, and the cognitive dissonance between your last April insertion, and your first one in May.

Below the words I am typing are two that will "prove" I am "not a robot." The one word is so clear, that it will be impossible for me to mistype it. I don't recognize the other, and there is every chance that I will enter it incorrectly. Unless I am flawless in my attempt, this message will never reach you. That my success turns on so thin a dime, seems unjust, and is even a source of anger and apprehension. The word I am so able to read is a symbol of your last April entry. The one I cannot discern represents your first entry in May.

I hope these words reach you. I hope I have the joy of seeing and touching you soon. I hope that you go outside tomorrow, slowly lick an ice cream cone, let the wind tussle your curly locks, and look up (with at least one smile) at the blue sky.

I have been named “Owl who winks at the sunrise.” I am your most fond friend.

Barry Jaffe said...

2:45 a.m. on Sunday morning. Thinking and caring about you. Cynthia approached me yesterday. Wanted to make sure that I was up-to-date on news about you. You have reached her soul, her heart, Shani's spirit, and my essence.

I miss you.