First Clown

Four years ago last month this blog began as a daily “medical update” as I left BayMed and moved into a “what next?” phase of searching for a cardiac institute that would accept my challenge. Actually it had begun October 20, Wednesday evening still in hospital after hearing a grim prognosis and the inside observer this time, my private personal journal of my own end of life experience that I had often over the years as a parish priest experienced with and in others. Optimistic, always positive, essentially having no choice, and, priest, a death professional of sorts, I had decided to enjoy it, watch my physical feelings, note my state of mind, observe whether attitudes shifted. Watch, not at all, or at least not yet, anxiously. Record. Hold me up for a look and to ponder. Let me see.



Let me see. (takes the skull) Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?


One motivator was from having watched several parishioners and wondering if I would go their way; of some, hoping not. Annie had been, or seemed, brave and accepting; her only panic the day she asked me what dying would be like and I told her look forward to someone she had loved in this life greeting her as she died. I suggested her husband, who had drowned in a boating accident years ago, whom she had loved dearly. Appalled, she cried, “Oh, Father Weller, it’s been so long.” Evidently she had gone on after her life with him,  loving again and maybe dearer. Every day as a parish priest, one learns something, sometimes what not to say, as I had done that afternoon.  


One in particular, Rose, pathetic in extreme old age, had told me many times she was ready to die, ready and longing to die. I had been astonished then as death approached that she panicked and was afraid, grasping at every straw and string to hang on to life. And terrified of the grave’s darkness, she made a relative promise to install an electric light inside her casket. No judgment or laughter from me: would I do any “better” or different? 


Both stories twice told here before.


Also said here several times before is that as I was contemplating thusly and began journaling, a dear friend suggested I post on CaringBridge so friends and loved ones could keep up with. After a day or so of back and forth, I decided to go with it and began a new chapter. Different: sharing would require discretion. Journaling I could tell all, blogging would require a pulpit approach. Simply, some stories, memories, regrets, longings, joys and sadnesses, cars in my garage of dreams, some fears that would surface would not be pulpit jokes. But no problem: as a naval officer I’m accustomed to authority and self-discipline. Adjustment, not problem. Just don't tell all.


Why do I continue this daily nonsense? This writing and posting. Same reason Linda works crossword puzzles. Mental exercise. Self expression. Fun. No forum for argument, I say close to what I’m thinking, unconcerned about impression because WTH, it’s my blog. 


Like now. From last Sunday’s fall two things still hurt: lips, and abrasions on the right hand. More peroxide and bacitracin. Face is still a Halloween mask because I bruise easily, instantly and long and the hideous abrasion where I slid on my nose and upper lip. Want a good fright? OK I’ll post a selfie. Blogging these four years I’ve give up on modesty. Ten years ago during the prostate cancer episode even the bashful bladder took its leave of me. As well, anyone who for more than thirty years made a damn fool of himself ten or fifteen minutes in a pulpit Sunday after Sunday is inured to “what will people think?” Comes to mind the commodore in my last ship whose favorite expression was, “I don’t give a rat’s ass.” 


The Holy Man never said that, it was our PhibRon commodore. 


Today. Hopefully, arrange and schedule cardiac rehab. While Linda paints a room upstairs, I’ll open and wash two more upstairs windows. If the house sells, rooms and windows will be fresh. It not, rooms and windows will be fresh. Call a carpet stretcher. Finally, into the car, out to the beach. Smile through wired lips. Enjoy the ocean from high up: sounds of the wind and sounds of the sea make me happy to be. Sip a glass of red wine. Through a straw. Red wine through a gardenia straw. 


W+