i have you down for June 1," said the barely alert automatron working in patient registration deep in the basement of the 'Dark Tower'. The basement is where UMass Medical Center puts its little hive of outpatient clinics. Cheerful.
"Oh," said I, "What a waste." But I was philosophical about my error, though I had just crawled out of a brief night's bed of only four hours sleep, which had commenced, blessedly, just before 7:00 AM, but only after long hours of anticipation. At 12:25 PM, bleary-eyed, feverish (still!), I climbed upon my Trek to pedal my meaty buns up and over Belmont Hill to the cold grey edifice which sits in a hollow once the pastoral home of a pig farm.
But what a glorious day! Hot, bright sun, coupled with a gusty freshening breeze made my pilgrimage of illness quite endurable. I did note, however, the heavy burden of this damn interminable cold slowing my progress and dragging down my energy. I would not have gone to my appointment with my neurologist (which is only doors down the hall from the HIV clinic) if I didn't want to stay away so much.
you're right. It should have been there today," said the charming and helpful Michelle at 3Com. I think this cold is mystically linked to the troubles I am having with this damn NIC, and with trying to get it here.
I know it's probably petty of me, but I'm in the mood to make some noise. Especially if I do not get what I deserve. That's new for me. Very new. It has even made my ears hot. This e-mail to 3Com explains it:
...and it probably won't work when it gets here. ;-) Actually, I guess that makes me superstitious. It has always seemed to me that if you give an eventuality no thought whatsoever, its chances of occurring are much greater than if you recognized it as a possibility beforehand. So, every night when I return from work, as I unlock my apartment door, I think, "It's entirely possible that some thief came and stole your computer, and you are now only seconds away from opening this door and discovering that your life is over."
I over-magnify a bit, don't I?
somewhere along the line here I lost track of my original topic: today is the traditional Memorial Day. I thought of it on my way home from the failed appointment. I had not remembered to remember. I had let my whining, and my negativity (I really need another day in bed, so of course I have to go out to an appointment), and my aversion for awareness (like the automatron, earlier) all have their way with me. When I realized my unthinking error, standing in the hallway of the hospital after biking two and a half miles, I could only smile.
Yeah, I probably am cultivating a dreaded 'opportunistic infection' here, and yeah, I didn't get enough sleep, and yeah, I got issues, and yeah, I didn't get my little toy today. But so what?
I know Memorial Day is too often seen only as a military holiday, but the military is a pretty good example of something really unpleasant that we would really rather not remember. And that applies to a lot of things in our lives that need remembering.
The two old men sat noticably still, and quiet, as if keeping a magnificent agony barely contained. Just the two of themno wives or grandchildren. They were friends, perhaps; on a mission, most certainly. They were seated behind me and Stephanie. I'd seen them when I came in, but I forgot they were there. Whenever I go to a movie, I always have to sit through the credits at the endbut not to read the credits, I usually pay little attention to them. I stay seated when the credits roll to absorb the emotions which have timidly emerged, and to not rush back into a mindless frenzy, which seems to be the only purpose of rushing. I am usually the last to leave. When the sound stopped and the screen finally went black, Stephanie's prodding to go prevailed. I stood, turned to leave, and there they were.
They appeared to be the exact age of the elder Private Ryan, who's saving we had just watchedtogether, sort of. It was an awkward moment. I didn't know whether to cry, or kiss their hands. But even though nothing was left in the theater to look at, atleast nothing visible to Stephanie and me, still their eyes were fixed to a point somewhere off in the distance, a place where maybe I did not belong, a place where surely I did not want to go. Had they looked up I might at least have shook their hands; surely I would have wept. How do you thank someone for being in pain? And so I went along and left them to tend their own trauma's without my needful aid. But briefly I remembered: Such things are real, such lives have been lived, and agonies need our remembranceif for no other purpose than to keep us aware, preciously aware.
And the coin? That's the year I was born.
|
updated |