My wife and son are out of town for the weekend, so I stayed with my father last night. We spent most of the evening waiting for my stepmother?s plane to arrive, listening to the Red Sox on the radio. They lost, but fortunately the game lasted 13 innings. We didn?t have much to say, nor need to say it. Listening, together, is enough.
This morning we went out to breakfast at Roy?s in Auburn. I asked if anyone remembered where I was a year ago.
?I do,? my stepmother said.
?I made it: one year?, I said.
On May 5, 2011 my brain tumor was discovered and I was admitted to the hospital. The tumor was to be removed in brain surgery the next day, if it proved operable. Otherwise: an opiate-lubricated slide into darkness and death. I reminded my wife: if I?m a veggie, pull the plug.
One year later, I remain anchored to the events of that day. It is now, perhaps, more important than my birthday. What are ?years of age? to a terminal cancer patient? Some pile of ticket stubs. The one year I have survived is like a charm in my pocket.
She invited me to celebrate next year?s Fifth-of-May back at Roy?s (with the whole family) and added the event to her iPhone calendar.
?I look forward to it,? I said, pleased. I might not make it, but if I do, I think it?s going to be fun.
In the afternoon we all rode down to Westbrook for a celebration of various milestone birthdays in my brother-in-law?s family (30 years, 60 years). The birthdays are not particularly close to May 5, but I suppose ?Cinco de Mayo? is a good day for a feast.
We arrived early. As party supplies were hauled inside, one of the balloons escaped. I sat in the car and watched it float into the sky. At first I could see its sunny side and its shadow side and the twinkling ribbon tail. In a few minutes it diminished to a tiny speck. I was aware, at the time, of the convenience of this metaphor to a mission of tortured self-distinction: a man elegantly disappears and no one notices.
Inside, the crowd swelled. I was not uncomfortable, just bored: self-righteously bored and possessed of the opinion that I need not pretend otherwise; not afraid to mingle, but enclosed in the conviction that it would be pointless and false. I would say that I was content to sit and watch, but I fear it?s becoming impolite. My habit of seeing everyone in the room, of lingering on the brighter faces, of casting the women in fairy tales, might in decades past have passed for adolescent curiosity. Now it?s just creepy.
I pulled the bill of my cap down over my eyes, or focused on the empty soda can on the table in front of me. Yet reflexively I would turn, and see someone looking at me. Again, I index the lore of my social anxiety: I am sensitive to being looked at. That is why, if you look at me, I will see you looking at me. Am I projecting the annoyance and confusion I have seen upon meeting their eyes, as if I?m a crown of flies? Am I some sort of optical glutton, taking more than my fair share of sights? I covered my face.
My father rescued me. Thirty years ago he might have questioned my ?attitude?, but today he understood. With rare sincerity he asked if I would like a ride home. I seemed tired. I would, and thank you. Later he acknowledged we each would often rather be alone. True, true.
I found flowers on my doorstep: purple tulips in an antique brown-glass pint bottle, with a card addressed to ?BOGART?.
I?m not sure if the one-year anniversary of a brain cancer diagnosis is something you feel like noting, but I can?t help thinking about the last year and all you have done? this bottle from Tunk being one of them.
I looked more closely at the pint bottle. Apparently it was the one I rescued from ten feet of water in Tunk Lake last August, during a visit to our friends? camp, when I craved to be in the water. They cleaned it up, gave it a nice bow. Lettering in the glass warns:
FEDERAL LAW FORBIDS SALE OR RE-USE OF THIS BOTTLE
I think we?ll get away with it.
One (leap) year, still kickin'
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