leukemiasurvivor.com

Pick a point in time.

That's the trick about filling in the blanks in my past. A past, no doubt, that gets further away with each passing day. Documenting what's happening today has turned out to be surprisingly easy. It takes a little dedication, obviously, and some decision-making, but there is nothing to remember.

Anything can spur the thought process: a newspaper article, some meal, conversations with a co-worker, the smell of fresh-cut grass in the afternoon, popular movies or music or television, daily interactions with my daughters.

Had I the foresight, thirteen years ago, or the energy, I might well have been able to find enough details in the every day of hospital life to generate this story then. Even if I wasn't able to apply more than a decade of perspective, at least I'd have the details. On this summer day in 1990, Cindy had the day off, my fever spiked again, when I opened the curtains I watched the rain drizzle down the glass, I tried to get in my sit-ups and push-ups but was too tired to get out of bed to do anything other than use the bathroom once or twice, vomiting after apple juice again, all bored and exhausted and restless at the same time.

Whatever. There would be specifics. They would be written down, or recorded on tape, and it would be a simple matter to connect the dots. As it stands, it's a much more difficult task than I'd ever imagined, and not just because of the growing number of years between now and then.

Or maybe it's just that the causes the memories to crowd at the barriers I've erected for them. When I open that tiny door in my brain, a sliver of light into the darkness, hoping to call out for just one (end-of-summer demoral addiction withdrawal symptoms, please) so many others, related and unrelated crowd to the front.

I've got my fucking nose right up next to this Seurat, this unbelievable collection of multi-colored dots, and even though I know that time has afforded me the luxury of standing back, of seeing the completed work, I know that I need to still need to build it one tiny dot at a time. Specifics. Which dot, where? Red? Blue? Purple?

And so I continue to effectively procrastinate the past. Fiddle away, writing about writing, meta masturbation, while the story itself continues to shout at me from behind closed doors.

It's not going to be squeaky-clean story. This happened to me once before, just about twelve years ago, now, sitting on my makeshift futon up in the 4th Davis double I shared with Aaron during my "official" senior year at Carleton. He was working at his desk while I rested with my back against the south wall, furiously typing on my laptop (a bulky Toshiba that had been a gift from Dad and Jane during the previous summer).

What I did during the summer of 1990 wasn't exactly a big secret. It wasn't exactly common knowledge, either. Back then, I shared it with more friends and acquaintances than I do today, sometimes talking about my experience late into the night. I was closer to it then. At the same time, I'd wanted to move on. It wasn't that I was bottling anything up, see, it's just that other things seemed more important than dredging through year-old memories.

Which was why it was surprising, a little, to read what I'd let myself write. There must not have been much in the way of a break during my relentless keyboard pounding, because as soon as I'd typed the definitive final punctuation mark, I looked up and saw Aaron with his arm over the back of his chair, eyeing me curiously.

"Shit," he said. "What the hell was that?"

"I dunno," I said, paging up, up, up. "It's about leukemia."

"Wow. I guess."

The thing was laced with expletives. It was raw. I can't remember, now, what I'd even set out to write that afternoon. A tidy little Hemingway-esque memoir, maybe, a clean, well-lit place. It didn't turn out that way at all: it was angry, explosive, a tangible reminder of how close to the bone that particular cut still throbbed.

Present tense: still throbs, at times, when I pick at it too much.

The profanity creeps in, and I am a willing fucking accomplice.

Real life.

Long term goals.

Daily grind.

Strolling down memory lane.

Interrupt-driven existence.

Quiet time to collect (and document) my thoughts.

Now.

Tomorrow.

Now?

This is still present-tense, but it's the February 2004 me, tired, more than a little, but nothing that worries me like it would have worried me ten or twelve years ago.

I realize that I've managed to move this story forward much farther in the past three months than the past thirteen years combined. I'm proud of what I've written since November. Glancing at the table of contents, however, I also realize that there's still a great deal of work remaining.

But this isn't my job. I'm not a full-time writer. The nine-to-five is also absorbing and challenging and enjoyable. And some of the best quality time I have "after hours" is spent with my daughters and with my wife, not with a keyboard and my memories.

Bottom line: I need a break. The story is a challenging one to write, and I want to do it justice, so I'm going to formally announce that the silence over the next two weeks isn't because I'm done, but because I'm refueling.

I'd planned on just quietly resuming my writing, but I'd be remiss if I didn't take a moment to acknowledge the fact that as of today, March 3rd, 2004, I've been in remission for 14 years.

It's as good a time as any to pick up the story again.

Wish I could figure out how to make the MT templates do what I want them to do. Even though I'm not advancing the story, I am in the midst of improving it. Filling in details, adding a little across-the-board spit and shine.

For example, here is a paragraph from my first entry that I'd never edited beyond cursory first draft changes:

Then I will be talking with Mom. We are standing in the kitchen at the new house. She is writing a grocery list. I'm swishing a glass of ice water around, listening to the ice clank against the sides, asking her about insurance. We talk about this fairly often. It concerns me, my ability to find insurance with such an ominous "pre-existing condition." I'm not even paying much attention to what I'm saying, just random questions for her to field. Suddenly she'll start crying. Real tears, running fast, and they make me uncomfortable.

Maybe it's 1992; I would be talking with Mom. We'd stand in the open kitchen at the new house, the cleaner, newer, more spacious house that she and Paul had moved into after Laura and I had gone away to our respective colleges. Mom is working on a grocery list, standing in front of the refrigerator with a small notepad, opening and closing cupboards almost at random. I'd be leaning up against the corner by the double sinks, swishing a glass of water around, listening to the ice clank against the sides, asking her what she thinks about insurance. We've talked about this fairly often since graduation: it concerns me, my inability to find insurance with such an ominous pre-existing condition. COBRA won't last forever. What am I supposed to do when I finally get a real job?

I'm not even paying much attention to what I'm saying, just random questions for her to field. She's The Mom, the solid, strong business woman. She knows these things. But suddenly she'd start crying. Real tears, running fast, and they would make me uncomfortable.

There's much more to come. Much more new prose to follow, even though it won't be in the form of any brand new entries. I'll keep trying to get these templates to work the way I'd like, to better highlight new writing in old entries. Until then, the table of contents on the left, or the more printer-friendly version of the story remain the best ways to keep up-to-date.