I now have a collection of several medals, guardian angel pieces, prayer cards, saint blessings, and rocks that Jesus may have walked upon. I write this without any rancor for the people who hold these things dear. But for me, they are a burden.
Am I supposed to carry these artifacts with me at all times, with an intention that they might provide strength and courage? And what if I don’t have them with me? Does the inverse apply? Will I forfeit any such possible courage and good luck afforded by these items? Without fail, some people will attempt to clarify that it’s the meaning of the item which holds importance, the belief that goes along with it, but then why enforce the “must carry” rule? Why not just forego the object? Is there any ultimate significance in objects whether the Pope blessed it or Jesus traipsed upon it? Thought and expression, on the other hand, could render themselves universal.
The icon objectifies the idea of faith and hope. But what ultimately are we supposed to be hoping and praying for? More time to not die, to not suffer? Isn’t that what happens to every human being? We’re born and eventually we die. And in between a bunch of stuff happens. To date, I know of no person, religious or not, who has escaped this fate.
I don’t want to die just yet. As much as I don’t want to fear death, most of the time, the idea doesn’t give me a warm cozy feeling. There are too many exciting things going on right here. If some kind of spirit life awaits, how much better could it be than watching bob-sledding at the Winter Olympics, or sitting in Central Park watching beauties and freaks all in the same glance? If the afterlife is supposed to be so good, why then should I be praying to stay in this forsaken place?
But these icons…c’mon. They don’t give me faith and courage. Stanford V chemotherapy pumped into my veins gives me a little more hope. The dedication and efforts of my oncologist, Craig Moskowitz and his staff, raise my spirit. My friends and family, goals and desires give me faith to keep on truckin’.
When someone passes on the responsibility of accepting a relic of superstition, it can only add a tinge of guilt should I decide to reject the offering (sort of like the days of mailed chain-letters) and just pile it into a box. Heaven forbid…I don’t get well, then I guess it was my fault. Maybe someone is looking over my shoulder, an old relative, a fairy, an angel; who knows? I certainly don’t. If it’s there, it’s not for the asking.
Why do some people need to know exactly what I believe, where I “stand” spiritually? Are they desperate for validation? In the last decade I’ve sought out a new awareness that would contradict any bargaining for health. I’d be a phony to backtrack. Is god desperately needing a sick person to beg for health and forgiveness and deciding whether that person will be well or not? If so, he’s got a huge ego problem. George Carlin wryly says that if god already knows the outcome, and sometimes the answer is no, why pray in the first place!
People sometimes say that god gives us nothing more than we cannot bear. What a clever being, this god, picking and choosing tailor-made diseases just for the right people. No god gave me cancer or a cross to bear. I embrace and accept this as a reality of being mortal. It’s part of my time here, however long or brief. I’m connected to all synapses, all mutations, past and present–-all things that come from god…whatever, whomever, or how not, that may be defined. That is what I have been given.
One Comment
I think that it is interesting that the first time–at least that I have seen in your journals–that you are discussing death and your fear of death is prompted by reflection on objects. There are religious objects, and decidedly un-religious objects that are discussed. Is the construction of meaning in your life constituted through objects? Or are you questioning your relationship to objects as being primary, as being the locus of meaning? I remember you said that you don’t like to own things; you don’t like to acquire possessions. You are saying the same thing in this journal, but I think that you are scared of the weight that other people are giving these objects, and afraid of the way that they seem to concretize their being. People filter their lives and their understandings of their lives and their very relationships to themselves through objects that are without them, seemingly reflecting the unattainable meaning within them.
I think that a lot of people want to know what it is you believe when you are sick. And that’s ironic to me: there was never a time when I really didn’t believe anything. I didn’t know what it was that was happening to me, so I couldn’t even begin to tell them what they wanted to hear. There was never a time when I was less aware of meaning, and less aware of how and what and from whom meaning was derived in the process of life, in the delicate, desultory process of living as a human being. Was I praying? No, I wasn’t praying. I was doing my best not to throw up every moment of every day that I was conscious. Was I spiritual? No, I was too busy aggrandizing the work of my doctor. I knew that was the only way out of this. Likewise, for you, it was Stanford V. It’s real: the only thing that *is* real to us, the evidence of medicine, of trials, of tests, of bodies that came out whole and working again. A body of evidence certainly bereft of a sacred purpose.
And it gets even more strange. Here is this experience that you have nothing to do with, that you didn’t think up, that you didn’t get yourself into, and it is the single most important thing you will ever do. Where is the meaning in that? It is impossible to find, fumbling around in a new life that is characterized by the words your doctor tells you about what is happening to you. It is trying to describe yourself in a foreign language, in a foreign country, with a foreign body destroying the parts of you you thought to be invincible. Meaning is hard to come by, hard to produce, hard to derive. You talk about your new awareness of your ego and the need to exert your ego, how you need to do things on your terms, in your own time. It is understandable. You need to be in control for the rest of your days. You had nothing to do with the biggest experience you have ever had. Instead, you had to believe in chemotherapy, in doctors. There was no room for anything else. Certainly nothing spiritual. This is my favoritite of your journals, and a beautiful vignette of an important experience.
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