This weekend I was asked point blank if I consider myself a writer. I hesitated, hovering somewhere between humility and embarrassment that this person may actually want to
read something I'd "written." Next blunt question? "When did you last write something?" No hesitation here. "Today," I say. And then I realized.
I don't spend nearly enough time writing, and pretty much everything I write is awful and I either throw it away before it can reach another pair of eyes or stuff it between the pages of a forgotten journal. But regardless of its value, I write something every day. No matter what. Most of the time I don't even look at it as writing, but merely recording. During the week I come home from work with stacks of sticky post-it notes covered with my loosely scrawled thoughts from the day (such as the ones this blog entry is being written from). I carry a small green notebook with me everywhere, and in between the grocery lists and appointment reminders are poems and bits of overheard conversations and sometimes simply a word that perfectly describes the light on these tall mirrored buildings. I don't think I know how to fully understand what's happening in my life until I write it out. So yes, I think that makes me a writer.
And what I'm trying to understand tonight, dear reader, is how to deal with watching a close friend accept that he is dying. This sounds selfish, I know, because after all,
I'm not the one having to deal with
my death. But there is something powerful and scary and important in listening to a person you love come to terms with the idea that he is at the end of his life.
I suppose I should explain a little about my friend. I met Roger last Christmas and have spent the past year growing close to him. Roger is a Catholic priest and like all good priests I've met in my life, he isn't offended that I don't go to church. He doesn't argue when I complain about the conflict I feel over the hypocrisy in religion, and he doesn't judge me when I tell him that there are days I am faithless. We talk about literature and travel and the sadness of family and the hope in everyday. When it was discovered that Roger had brain cancer last year, our conversations were altered slightly. The fact is that Roger is dying, and he needs to talk it out, the same way I need to write things out. Sometimes his acceptance of the situation is unnerving. He jokes that while he's hopeful that the experimental treatment will work, he's not about to rule out the large chance it won't. He calls it keeping his options open. At this point in our discussion, I become quiet and incredibly focused on my cup of tea. I call this denial.
In my typical selfish fashion, I usually ignore the possibility that this might be Roger's last year, that when I kiss him goodbye he will battle many serious odds before I see him again. I haven't written about Roger before now, and therefore I haven't really accepted the reality of his illness. And I'm not sure what this entry is doing other than allowing me to acknowledge that this is happening and that I don't like it or know how to deal with it. I realize this doesn't make for a very interesting read, but don't worry, I have plenty of material for another day. So stay tuned.
There are different wells within your heart.
Some fill with each good rain.
Others are far too deep for that.
