I spent last weekend in Charlottesville with Cecil, then came
home Sunday night for a few days’ work. At 5:30 Monday morning, a text called
out from my nightstand: he’d fallen; plunging blood pressure; fever spike;
hallucinations. They were transferring him to the ICU.
Hallucinations?
I’ve been prepared for any number of calamities throughout the stem cell
transplant process. We’ve already been visited by many of them, but
hallucinations were not on the list.
I jumped from bed, maybe brushed my teeth…not sure…then threw
the dogs into the car. The sun came up as I sat outside the kennel, waiting for
it to open, so I could board the pups. The poor girl who arrived tried to
comfort me as I conducted business through a stream of tears that fell, unblotted
and unexplained.
Racing up the
highway, I prepared myself for what was waiting. Maybe he would die today. Maybe
the graft had failed and he would fade away gradually. Maybe he’d stroked out
and would never be the same. When I got there, I found a man I didn’t
recognize. There were many things going on, but the hallucinations have stayed
with me most of all.
He spoke more like a child than anything else. The trashcan
was stalking him, but cleverly jumped back into place when I stood up to catch
it in the act. We peeked under his covers to look at the potatoes he had
gathered there, and the hand that was arranging them. Billy Bob Thornton pulled
up a chair alongside of his bed to sing to him. And, of course, the wallpaper
was waving (in 3-D), there were insects crawling on body parts, and squirrels
were plunging to their death off high-rises out the window.
Reality snuck in around the corners from time to time. “I
think I’m seeing things that aren’t really there,” he said once, just as his
eyes darted off to follow the glitter that was raining down upon a stack of Ziplocs
that were mobilizing in the street below.
I didn’t know what to make of all this. Cecil is a highly
educated man: an engineer; a physician. Suddenly, he was talking nonsense. His
reality at the time was a place I couldn’t get to. We were in different
spheres, like two planets orbiting independently of each other. Meaningful communication
was not an option. It reminded me of when we were fending off the feds.
Nothing they were doing made sense. Cecil was the kindest,
most dedicated doctor a person could hope to have. His population of pain patients
was among the most difficult to treat, but he never gave up on any of them.
Yet, the feds pounced on him like he was some drug dealer barely in disguise. They
had to know Cecil was a good man and a wonderful doctor. That information was
all around them. It just didn’t seem to matter. They were committed to a
reality that, for us, didn’t exist.
Cecil’s legal team was ready to defend his medical
decisions. It turned out though, the feds had a different theory of the case. They
put on evidence that was so far afield of the allegations it was almost
laughable – except it wasn’t. The jury was presented stories of dead squirrels,
Beetle and Bailey living in the basement, prescriptions exchanged for nasty old
wine racks, and pot billowing from bongs all day every day in front of, and
with, patients. They attacked Cecil for being eccentric. They made fun of his
eclectic office décor, and they had a field day with a ‘coffee stained patient
list’ they’d found in his truck during the first of their raids. The lead
prosecutor flashed Cecil’s driver’s license picture on a theater-size screen
throughout the trial. It had been taken on a bad hair day.
In looking back, the whole case seems now like a grotesque
hallucination. It was as far-fetched as the potatoes under Cecil’s sheet, or
the trashcan that was stalking him. If you look around, though, these kinds of
disconnects are everywhere. One doesn’t have to have IV drugs running through
his body, or be an ambitious prosecutor serving a political agenda, to see
things that aren’t there.
Every day in my law practice, I hear stories of people
talking at each other without being heard. I have a case now in which neither
party can see the spouse’s point of view, no matter how legitimate it might be.
She is an evil bitch, that’s all there is to it. He is a domineering bully who
draws the line at nothing, for no apparent reason. Each comment is taken as menacing,
and neither party is above bending or stretching words or intonations to mean
something they likely never did. I spent fifteen minutes with a client last
week debating the significance of where the spouse had placed a comma in an
email.
It’s easy to take up position and miss the things that don’t
mesh with your sense of reality. When Cecil and I have arguments, the only ones
that end well are the ones that find one of us willing to let go of our self-conviction. When I make my point from every conceivable angle, without
considering what he is saying, the only movement in the conversation is in the volume and the
level of sarcasm. If I find it within myself to stop and listen, and admit
when he is right, the whole dynamic changes. Suddenly, we are laughing at
ourselves. We become friends and lovers again, instead of antagonists bent on
toppling each other. Our realities come together rather than collide.
Reality can be distorted by perception or context as it
moves among us. It is upon common ground that we can
communicate and mean something to each other.
On the way from the hospital to the cottage the other day, I
stopped at a light. Two young men were sitting on the curb, each with a bottle
of liquor in hand. They were both clearly well on their way to wherever the
bottle would take them.
One spoke loudly in a string of vernacular and epithets,
gesturing wildly as he berated the other. “How dare you, M…F… place your hand on my body,” he screamed. “You had
no right to lay your hand on my body when you spoke to me, you son-of-a-bitch.
I don’t put my hand on you when I talk, you M..F..ing bastard.” He ranted and he raved, unfazed by the other
man’s disinterest. The second man was not available…his headphones and
sunglasses had taken him elsewhere. Undaunted by his friend firing off next to
him, the second man swayed to music, tapped his feet and smiled to himself. The
two sat together, joined in separation from most of the rest of us, but isolated
from each other in what looked like a Woody Allen mockery of communication.
It takes work and effort to reach people. The challenge is
to see the issue or the situation from someone else’s perspective, and then be
willing to move toward it. I can forgive the guy who finds himself lost in
hallucinations. I have come to dismiss the individual who cannot see that others likely have valid points to make. If you’re going to be so
self-absorbed as to listen only to yourself, you might as well be a blithering
outcast sitting on the curb, or the guy next to him in headphones.
Wow! The antoganist and the protagonist are, at times, oblivious to one another's reality. That is, until their spheres of reality collide. You, my dear, are the one who brings them together in what is truly - reality. The Venn diagram of life.
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