July 29: Abideth Forever, Annual Evaluation, Sharon Olds, "His Stillness"

And now, he [Ives] thought, his boy was dead, and even if he were to rise, to be reincarnated in some other form, their lives would not be the same.  What was that little quotation from the New Testament that had once impressed him when he was a boy?  A quotation he'd at one time always taken to heart, from 1 John 2:17:  ". . . The world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever."  Was that so?  Or was it that the world, their life, the familiar, the comfortable would not ever occur again?

A tough passage.  Ives coming to terms with the death of his son.  Ives has no idea how to return to his life.  Everything has changed, and he starts questioning if he'll ever know a "normal" day.  He walks down the street and can't look people in the face.  He wears sunglasses all the time, so nobody can see the caverns of loss in his eyes.  Always a gentle and caring soul by nature, Ives now has to work to be gentle, to scrape up compassion from the wounded chambers of his heart.

Today, I had my annual evaluation at work.  It was good.  The one comment my supervisor made that stuck in my head was, "You're always so positive, no matter what."  I try not to bring my problems to work.  I don't talk about the hole in my kitchen ceiling or the shingles falling off my roof.  My car was out of commission for three weeks in June, and hardly anybody in the office knew that I was begging for rides from friends and family.

And, of course, there's my sister's illness.  I'm sure most of my coworkers know about her condition.  However, I don't speak about it much.  Part of being a professional is not letting problems affect job performance.  For the eight hours I'm at the medical office, I'm positive.  All the time.  At 4:30 in the afternoon, I'm exhausted.

I think it's because, like Ives, I have to work at being normal, and normal for me is happy, joking, compassionate, and kind, according to my supervisor.  It used to be easy, because, in general, I like almost everybody I meet.  It isn't easy any more.  It's a performance.  A part in a play.  A long and unending play.  And it's incredibly taxing.

I don't smile much at home right now.  In fact, I'm sort of cranky.  By the time I walk through my front door in the evening, I'm tired of being happy and positive.  I just want to be myself, and myself is sad and angry and tired and a little confused. 

My sister is going to have a third round of chemo this week.  Then the doctor is going to order an MRI.  Depending on the results of that test, my sister will either continue with the treatment, or she will come home to be kept comfortable.  That's the reality of my life at the moment.  My normal.

Saint Marty is positive tonight.  Positive he's going to go home and have some of his son's chocolate milk mixed with Bailey's Irish Cream.

His Stillness

by:  Sharon Olds

The doctor said to my father, "You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That's what I'm telling you now."  My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes.  I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out.  He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man.  The doctor said,
"There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you."  My father said,
"Thank you."  And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him.  This was my father.
He had known he was mortal.  I had feared they would have
to tie him down.  I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept silent to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still.  I had not
known him.  My father had dignity.  At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.

Which fish are you?