Today is New Year's Eve. I don't ascribe much significance to the date, and I don't go to parties or drink or shoot off fireworks, but I am aware another year is beginning. It is new in many ways for me. I have a new job. It is in a new state. I had to get a new medical license for the first time in 20 years. The status of my transplant is uncertain. AMR doesn't just go away, it is merely controlled for a little while. For the first time, I consider myself old, rather than feeling like a 25 year old in a 60 year old's body.
It is, however, a Christmas present that prompts this post. I have described to my family a particularly special memory from childhood. It was when my uncle Lloyd came to visit. I was 7 or 8 years old, and he was about 80, tall, powerfully built, with long, white hair and a white beard. I had never met him, and I would never meet him again. When he left he gave me a present. It was a book called 'The Circus'. It was a paperbound, stapled book of about 40 pages with bright, glossy color covers on which there was a picture of a group of clowns.
I was a little old for the book, and it was quite dated in style. Nonetheless, I treasured that book for my entire childhood. Lloyd was kind to me, a feeling in short enough supply in my life, and I felt in the gift an attempt to reach out and please my young soul, a gesture of indescribable tenderness and meaning to me. Sometime in the changes of college and going to med school, I lost the book. I searched for it for a while, and I don't remember what happened to it. I have missed it ever since, an avatar of kindness to an boy in difficult circumstances.
My daughter, helped by my sister, searched for and found the book. She bought me a copy from Amazon, or Ebay, or somewhere, and on Christmas Day I opened it, disguised in a grey pullover sweater. It was several minutes before I could take the book away to uncover my face. What was mine, was mine again.
In looking at 'The Circus' I was reminded of my mother.
My mother developed multi-infarct dementia, and also blindness from glaucoma. She burned the house down smoking while blind, and spent a month in a psychiatric facility to control her florid delusions. That my sister and I had long suspected some degree of mental illness did not lessen the pain of seeing the degradation of a human being, and the dysfunction of a brilliant mind. She went into assisted living, first in Philadelphia, then Knoxville. As she became more and more demented she lost most of her orientation. She was never a sociable woman, and spent her time in assisted living alone, not joining group activities. Near the end she had a favorite stuffed toy,a Raggedy Ann doll, that she clutched with her at almost all times.
When she died it fell to me to dispose of what few possessions she had. I couldn't bear to keep the Raggedy Ann doll. I gave it away, taking a picture of it on top of a Goodwill donation pile. It's enough, truly.
I think every life has its 'shards of Narsil', its Rosebud. Citizen Kane's entire life of acquisition is explained in a flash with Rosebud. Those special, distinctive items are meaningless to anyone else, just another book or toy, but having them can carry deep meaning and comfort to the person. Collecting is not living any more than throwing away is forgetting. I hope my mother got as much happiness from her doll as I get satisfaction from my book. In a time of many changes and frightening uncertainties, it still carries the comfort and kindness of an old man to a troubled young boy.
Ted
It is, however, a Christmas present that prompts this post. I have described to my family a particularly special memory from childhood. It was when my uncle Lloyd came to visit. I was 7 or 8 years old, and he was about 80, tall, powerfully built, with long, white hair and a white beard. I had never met him, and I would never meet him again. When he left he gave me a present. It was a book called 'The Circus'. It was a paperbound, stapled book of about 40 pages with bright, glossy color covers on which there was a picture of a group of clowns.
I was a little old for the book, and it was quite dated in style. Nonetheless, I treasured that book for my entire childhood. Lloyd was kind to me, a feeling in short enough supply in my life, and I felt in the gift an attempt to reach out and please my young soul, a gesture of indescribable tenderness and meaning to me. Sometime in the changes of college and going to med school, I lost the book. I searched for it for a while, and I don't remember what happened to it. I have missed it ever since, an avatar of kindness to an boy in difficult circumstances.
My daughter, helped by my sister, searched for and found the book. She bought me a copy from Amazon, or Ebay, or somewhere, and on Christmas Day I opened it, disguised in a grey pullover sweater. It was several minutes before I could take the book away to uncover my face. What was mine, was mine again.
In looking at 'The Circus' I was reminded of my mother.
My mother developed multi-infarct dementia, and also blindness from glaucoma. She burned the house down smoking while blind, and spent a month in a psychiatric facility to control her florid delusions. That my sister and I had long suspected some degree of mental illness did not lessen the pain of seeing the degradation of a human being, and the dysfunction of a brilliant mind. She went into assisted living, first in Philadelphia, then Knoxville. As she became more and more demented she lost most of her orientation. She was never a sociable woman, and spent her time in assisted living alone, not joining group activities. Near the end she had a favorite stuffed toy,a Raggedy Ann doll, that she clutched with her at almost all times.
When she died it fell to me to dispose of what few possessions she had. I couldn't bear to keep the Raggedy Ann doll. I gave it away, taking a picture of it on top of a Goodwill donation pile. It's enough, truly.
I think every life has its 'shards of Narsil', its Rosebud. Citizen Kane's entire life of acquisition is explained in a flash with Rosebud. Those special, distinctive items are meaningless to anyone else, just another book or toy, but having them can carry deep meaning and comfort to the person. Collecting is not living any more than throwing away is forgetting. I hope my mother got as much happiness from her doll as I get satisfaction from my book. In a time of many changes and frightening uncertainties, it still carries the comfort and kindness of an old man to a troubled young boy.
Ted
She always loved dolls. She had many in boarding school, where she was sent from she t to she 12. She rented them to other students. I bought the Raggedy Ann for her, in Macky's pharmacy. I had no idea it became that important. I'm sure in her mind, it was a gift from her Mama.
ReplyDeleteMy son's middle name Lloyd, is for our dear Great Uncle, who was a mammoth,of man in heart and soul and body. His wife, a millener,whom he adored and would not allow to bear children, died at Christmas. He refused to take down the tree she decorated until it had lost all its needles and the family demanded it.
Your daughter and sister did very well to find you this shard of Narsil. Claudia and I read this and found it quite moving. So here is a New Year's toast to the memory of your Uncle Lloyd, and to the family that continues to cherish love and affection amidst the sad memories of dementia and the harshness of life itself.
ReplyDeleteHappy New Year.
-D-