Tuesday, September 06, 2011

The Cost of (My) Education

I have an online friend -- actually, I have a gratifying and inexplicable number of online friends, but I'm thinking of one in particular today. She's a lady-type friend, in her early fifties. Let's call her "A," in the interest of her privacy. She lives far from where I do. A makes her living as a therapist; actually, I think both she and her husband do that.

A couple of weeks ago, after an extended period of time experiencing the sorts of trouble that women often experience, A underwent the "instant menopause" surgery. I am supposing that a routine part of such procedures is to send samples of the tissues removed to the lab for analysis. Last week, A told me that she'd been informed of the result: cancer. Not just any cancer, either, but something quite rare and very aggressive. What she was told is that everyone who gets this sort of cancer dies from it, because it's so rare, and so few patients have been treated for it, the medical community doesn't know what works to treat it. She subsequently had some further testing done that established that her cancer's in stage one -- quite early -- and that this means that it's expected to return, probably in six months to a year. She'll be treated using chemotherapy and radiation. She's probably still going to die from the disease, but now it seems that she'll have a little more time. This seemed to gratify her pretty substantially; more time was what she felt the need for.

I've been in frequent correspondence with A since she shared this news with me. Some of what she writes is funny, in a sad way, as when she says she's not seeing much point in dieting, or spending time on anti-wrinkle skin care, or getting long-term dental work done. Some is just heartbreaking. And some makes you think about what's important. One thing she told me that particularly stands out is that she and her husband have become aware of just how deeply they love each other ... what a great thing to learn! But why does the lesson have so dear a price? Can't we learn it without paying so heavily? Maybe we can't -- not completely, at least. But it does seem to me that each of us can spend some time thinking about the people we love, and what they (and love) mean to us. I know I have been. I certainly don't know of anything else I have to think about that's even remotely as important.

A tells me that printed on the back of her business cards is "Love matters." As true as that may be, I'd take it a little further: love is the only thing that, ultimately, matters ... because people matter so very much. Love is the basis of how people are supposed to relate to each other, if we perceive each other properly for what we are. C.S. Lewis summed it up in "The Weight of Glory:"
It may be possible for each to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbor. The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbor's glory should be laid on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken. It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or the other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another; all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations -- these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit -- immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously -- no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner -- no mere tolerance, or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment. Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses.
I am very prone to lose my perspective and my sense of relative scale. My occasional minor health problem, my dissatisfaction with the day job, seeing my native country descend into authoritarianism: these can quickly seem very important to me. They are not. Each person reading this is important. A is important. My wife is important. My children are important. Even I am important. Let us treat each other well. As A says, "love matters."

Monday, September 05, 2011

How Many Shopping Days Left?

Before the biggest holy-day in America -- bigger even than Black-Friday-After-Turkey-Day. I refer, of course, to the national orgy of spurious self-pity to which we're all invited: the Tenth Anniversary of the Holy Nine-Eleven.

Perhaps those who live in Manhattan have an excuse for this nonsense. Maybe those who collect paychecks for hanging out in the Pentagram, down in DC -- no, wait, they definitely don't have an excuse. But look at this. The denizens of Green Bay, Wisconsin are apparently all ripped up and traumatized and inconsolable about the Great Disaster. You know, the one where more civilians were killed by hostile action than at any previous time in human history. (At least, more than at any previous time since August 6, 1945 ... but hey, let's get back on the proper subject here, shall we?)

Even today, almost a week ahead of time, we're being prepped. This morning, I was taking my exercise at the local YMCA when the telescreen directly in front of the elliptical trainer I was using -- tuned to ESPN, no less -- began showing us all about the impact of der Tag on somebody-or-other. I'm not sure exactly what the details were, since I was blessedly free of the audio, but there was a neat little "America Remembers" logo. Oh, yes, America remembers. We remember some things. We remember what our corporatist-governmental supervisors find it useful for us to remember; the telescreen sees to that. We remember, but we do not think. We remember, but we learn nothing. We deserve all that we get: all that we have gotten, all that we are getting, and all that is on its way to us. Willful stupidity is a violation of natural law, and punishment is ongoing. My unhappy intuition is that a rapid intensification of our punishment is not far away.

Meanwhile, let's remember, America. Here's a picture of someone devastated by the Great Nine-Eleven. Of course, he's an Eye-rackie. So, even though he's small, I'm sure he had it comin' to him. No need to drag out the bagpipes to play "Amazing Grace" for this one.