July 3: Agony of Memory, Having Fun, Guilty Fairy Tale, Patricia Lockwood, "See a Furious Waterfall Without Water,"

And Ives?  For his part, he did not like to be away from her [his wife] and yet seemed to enjoy his excursions upstate alone, now and then, in the winter.  The harshness and the monasterial nature of the place much appealing to his purgatorial side.  The days would go by, Ives occupied by his work, the evenings desperately lonely.  He wold have a drink or two, put on some upstate public radio station that played 1940s music, the mellow voice of Roy Rogers crooning some cowpoke song, or there might be a Bach oratorio on another station and he would sit by the fireplace listening, the choruses rising, and suffer in the wondrous agony of memory.

Memory is a plague for Ives.  His present is so stitched with sadness, and, yet, the happy memories of his past are just reminders of what he has lost:  his beloved son, his family, his perfect life.  Ives is simply incapable of being happy.  My guess is that Ives feels guilty, as if he's betraying his son by experiencing any kind of pleasure.

I understand Ives' dilemma.  Since the news about my sister's illness this week, I've felt obligated to feel sad.  Tomorrow is Independence Day in the United States.  There will be parades and community picnics and fireworks at dusk.  I will go to all of these events.  I will enjoy myself.  Yet, at the end of the day, when I get home and put on my pajamas, I will somehow feel guilt because I was having fun while my sister is struggling for her life in a hospital bed.

The latest news on my sister's condition is that the doctors have finally admitted that they really don't know how to treat her.  They have done ultrasounds and MRIs, and they haven't found any tumors.  Today, the hospitalist said, "We're grasping at straws here."  So, they are referring her to either the University of Michigan or Mayo Clinic.  Soon.  Maybe tomorrow.

Thus, while I'm watching a parade of dump trucks and police cars on July 4, my sister will probably be on an airplane, flying to Ann Arbor or Rochester.

Once upon a time, there was a little sparrow named Gary who felt guilty about everything he did.  He ate a worm, he felt guilty.  He sang a song at dawn, he felt guilty.  He bedded down for the night in his nest, he felt guilty.  Gary the sparrow was never happy.

One day, as Gary was sitting on a tree branch, cleaning some bugs out of his wings, a little boy came along with a BB gun and shot the little sparrow.

Gary fell out of the tree.  As he was falling, Gary thought, "I feel so bad about having to get the grass all dirty."  He hit the ground and died instantly.

Moral of the story:  Sparrows are pretty stupid.

And Saint Marty lived guiltily ever after.

See a Furious Waterfall Without Water

by:  Patricia Lockwood

Never has an empty hand been made
into more of a fist, and Waterfall Without
          it swings so hard it swings out
of existence.  How will anyone get married
now, with no wall of water behind them?
How will Over Niagara Falls in a Bareel
marry Across Niagara Falls on a Tightrope?
Over the Falls would have worn a veil.
Across the Falls would have tied a tie,
hand in hand they would have poured
down the aisle to the sound of rustling
          silks.  Later they would make
a gentle elbow in the water, later
they would pour into a still round pool,
and dance for three minutes to what they
called music.  Niagara Falls is a family
member.  He is drunk for the first time
in a hundred years.  "I don't call that music
I call that noise," would have screamed
Niagara Falls, right through his aquiline
family nose.  All of Niagara's ex-lovers
are here.  The World's Steepest Dive
stands up and says, "I've been diving
          so long now, and when will I hit?
When will you be there for me, Niagara?"
First Woman Behind the Falls stands up
so everyone can see her, so everyone
can see what has happened to her looks.
"You took the best day of my life,
          Niagara."  The World's
          Longest Breath-Hold stands up,
she loves him, she drew in her breath
the first time she saw him and never
breathed out again, not ever.  The furious
waterfall without water he punches her
into tomorrow; the World's Longest
Breath-Held is longer now and she calls
to him from the future, "You're here,
          you're roaring again where I am,
Tomorrow."  Finally his first love the U-
Shape stands up.  Stands up and she says,
"Niagara."  The sound curves down and up
again, even the shape of her voice is a U.
"I don't call that music.  I call that noise,"
says the furious waterfall without water,
trembling at the very lip, unable to contain
himself, and there he goes roaring
                                           back into her arms.

Even Niagara Falls feel guilt

April 17: Habits of This Life, Going Back, Nostalgic Fairy Tale

That had all happened long ago, and a few weeks before another Christmas, Ives awoke in the bedroom of his apartment on Ninety-third Street as a much older man and recalled how for years he would get up for work at seven in the morning, and swear that he could hear his son, Robert, whistling the theme to The Andy Griffith Show in the hallway, as he used to in the days when he delivered newspapers.  Ives would dress, half-expecting to find the boy in the hall, ready to start his morning's work regardless of the weather; or he would hear Bach sung faintly through his door, or find one of the books his son had been reading in the living room, left casually open on the couch as if he had just been reading it again.  And although he would think, "Caroline," another part of him imagined his body, nostalgic for the habits of this life, materializing from the hereafter.

Ives spends a good portion of the book wishing he could go back to happier times in his life, when his son was still alive and the future held so much hope and promise.  Ives wants a life without tragedy and loss.  A life where his son is delivering newspapers in the neighborhood and his daughter is dancing to Beatles records in her bedroom.  Where his wife and he sit on a couch in their living room, listening to jazz recordings, sipping gin and tonics.

Of course, everyone wants a life without tragedy and loss.  I miss my daughter as a little girl, sitting in my lap, letting me read Charlotte's Web to her.  I miss going to movies with my wife and making out in the darkness.  I miss my son learning to walk, lurching across the floor like a newborn colt.  These are memories that make me happy, nostalgic for better times.

Life never seems to get easier.  It just moves from minor setbacks to catastrophic losses and back.  I hope that doesn't sound too pessimistic.  I have been in a bit of a funk all day.  After I'm done typing these posts, I'm going to visit my sister in the nursing home.  One of my best friends has arranged for a lawyer to take on her case.  That's good news.  My sister has an appointment at Mayo Clinic in early June.  That's good news.  Now, getting my sister to Mayo Clinic is a whole other issue.  Suing a national healthcare system is, too.

I wish I could go back to last September, so that I could tell my sister not to have her back surgery.  I wish I could go back to last November, so that I could tell my friend, Ray, to go to the hospital before he had his fatal heart attack.  I wish I could go back to right before the birth of my daughter, when my wife and I were painting the nursery pale purple and plastering the walls with Winnie the Pooh stickers.

But that isn't the way life works.  There's no going back.  Happiness is as fragile as a soap bubble.  But so is sadness.  My funk will pass tonight.  By tomorrow morning, I will be sitting at McDonald's, eating some kind of McBreakfast, and having some form of McFun.

Once upon a time, there was a fisherman named Clyde who spent his whole life wishing he could go back to school and finish his degree in Culinary Arts.  "I could have been the cook to the king," he would tell anyone who would listen.

One day, Clyde cooked a pork roast for his wife.  As always, as he was cutting the meat, he said to his wife, "I could have been the cook to the king."

Clyde's wife looked at him and said, "The pork is dry.  The mashed potatoes are lumpy.  The carrots are half-cooked.  And the chocolate cake looks like a pile of cow manure."

Clyde stared at her.

"I'm sorry, honey," his wife said.  "You're a great fisherman, but you're a terrible cook."

That night, his wife died of severe food poisoning because Clyde didn't cook the pork long enough.

Moral of the story:  always cook your pork to an internal temperature of 150 degrees.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Saint Marty loves him some pork...

September 28: Young Friend, Terry Godbey, "The Incredible Shrinking Tumor"

I found out in church this morning that a young friend of ours has been diagnosed with thyroid cancer.  She's 17-years-old, a senior in high school, and is heading to the Mayo Clinic for treatment this week (I believe).  She needs prayers, people.  Get to work.

I owe you a Terry Godbey poem.  I missed a second post last Wednesday.  The poem is about Terry's battle with cancer.

Saint Marty dedicates it tonight to his young friend,.

The Incredible Shrinking Tumor

by:  Terry Godbey

My surgeon cheers
my phenomenal response
to the drugs
when she can't find
my tumor on ultrasound.

The gratitude I try to muster
is trapped in bile.  I despise
the medieval pump
of poison, nonstop nausea.
Why not try leeches,
bloodletting?

Chemotherapy is not the enemy,
my son reminds me.

Two weeks later
my oncologist declares
the mass of renegade cells
barely palpable,
apologizes
not for my misery
but for her cold hands,
sends me off
for another megadose
of miracle.

Nothing warms me
in the squalid chemo room
but back home
I light a candle,
slide under a steaming cut lace
of peach-mango bubbles,
soak
till the hot water runs out,

my breasts
floating
on the surface
as if already
preparing to leave.

Healing Prayer