…Then the Drifter said:
The Drifter is phoning it in this weekend, or at least shooting from the hip, because the kids (the twins) have pneumonia. And he himself feels like he might be coming down with pneumonia. Or it might be the effects of a lifelong insomnia problem. I remember wandering around exploring our little house in the Detroit suburb of Madison Heights alone in the middle of the night before my brother was born. I was four when he was born. I remember, like it was yesterday, the day they brought him home from the hospital. Like it was yesterday with a large gray veil thrown over it, that is. Sometimes I wonder what are all the things I don’t remember. I know what I remember. What I don’t know is what I forgot. Meanwhile, what I forgot doesn’t mean it hasn’t affected me. It might have been a traumatic thing that has affected my whole life more deeply than anything else that I do remember. I also know that memory has a way of casting a beautiful sheen over some things they could not possibly have had to that full of an extent while they were happening. This hectic week has also reminded me that you need a zen-like control of the mind in order to do any good writing at all, except maybe fragments you can save for later.
Regarding the pneumonia, the effort of providing (or trying to provide) constant emotional support while also talking everyone down and also talking them up all the time (“it will be okay, you can get through this,” etcetera), while simultaneously dealing with crowded doctors’ waiting rooms, harried medical staff, looming insurance debacles, half-assed pharmacy escapades, endless traffic jams, social anxiety disorder caused by bipolar disorder, and near-migraine headaches can be a thing that will lead to nervous breakdowns, just like it has done in the past. My well-medicated brain that has a dead patch in it from having a stroke can handle a lot but it too has its breaking point. The first sign is usually emotional, followed by physical, collapse. Lest it sound like I’m complaining I admit that all of the above is a journey too and these are also some of the most meaningful events in life. Watching your children suffer and panic and cough up blood up close teaches you something, even if you don’t know what it is at the time, and even when they are otherwise healthy kids who you know are probably gonna be okay.
The kids’ mother, my ex-wife, teaches sixth grade math fulltime at a public elementary school. Nearly half of her seventy or so students either have no father at all (that they know of or know) or have a father who’s in prison. It doesn’t make for the most controlled eleven- and twelve-year-old male behavior imaginable. The job has too many students and too many hoops to jump through almost constantly but teaching jobs around here aren’t easy to come by even under the horrible conditions. She takes over with the twins after work when they’re sick and I get to fly away like a bird, but until she’s available, the job of double caregiver is all mine. What I get out of it is a great relationship with great kids. The danger is a bunch of small nervous breakdowns that can lead to a big one. But I get to look myself straight in the eye in the mirror and say, honestly, that I’ve never abandoned them. The sense of freedom this causes through a lack of guilty feelings from doing otherwise is one more freedom in a world where we all want freedom. Freedom comes from what isn’t there as much as from what is. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else when the bombs and the bullets are flying in your direction.
I had started on a column this week before the pneumonia thing began and I here append a 287-word fragment of the rough draft as evidence. I believe it is worthy of perusing or I wouldn’t append it:
This is for all unsung spiritual warriors everywhere who know whereof I speak.
Those who do not know whereof I speak are of course free to read this anyway but it’s unlikely you’d get the same kick out of it as those in the know.
Whether this happened to you yesterday or forty years ago matters not one tiny jot.
What does matter is that the reader of this understand the concept of life as a war and certain individual chapters of it as battles and battlefields.
Understanding this concept does not mean that the symbol and metaphor indicated is real, if it were real it wouldn’t be symbol and metaphor, even though symbols and metaphors are real.
Real war is a horrendous ordeal for all involved, except the ones who get off on it, and there are many who get off on it, probably far more than is generally acknowledged.
The concept of life as a spiritual war means that the strains and stresses of living it on a daily basis can take the same kind of toll that a real war can take in the long run.
On any given day living my normal life in Chicagoland all these things might happen, sometimes within the same hour.
I might be almost run over or slammed into by an errant, enraged driver who then yells at and curses me for almost getting in his or her way even though I’m following the rules of the road and she or he is not.
I might be accosted on the street by a beggar in such a horrific, bedraggled and tragic condition of decomposition and desperation that my eyes, and my heart, can barely stand it.
I might
UNFINISHED.
Saragun Springs 
Very sorry that your daughters are ill, Dale. I have an inkling of what you’re feeling: my daughter is in hospital too.
But one piece of your post, and not an obvious piece, lifted my heart. Namely, your recollection of the arrival of your younger brother. I have a parallel recollection, in fact, my earliest date-able recollection at 2 years 8 months. Seventy-five years on, my brother and I still share wonderful bond. Your post got me reflecting about it. Thank you – mick
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Hi Mick
I’m sorry to hear about your daughter.
And I’m glad this column reminded you of your brother; it’s great that we have similar memories in that way!
Thanks again, I hope all is well.
Dale
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Hello Drifter
Nothing humbles one faster or more deeply than illness. This strikes well at that theme and is something that I can identify with. I have never had pneumonia, obviously I do not care to repair that–but I do understand the way Nature has of reminding us that the “in the blink of an eye” (like the Dawson poem recently) means just that and–in that regard–there is little difference between sixty and ninety. But also, Nature might be confused by the fact that we are (so far as it is known) the only of Her children able to conceptualize and give The Finger. To Her. To all.
So, here’s to you and yours remembering the soul of our little masthead. The twins will get well soon, because they are destined to see a hundred and fifty. You will have to place more of an effort into your own health, but at 59 you still have a few aces left to play.
Leila
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Thank you, Leila!
I think that, with the right attitude, it’s possible to live a long time, even if THEY (meaning one’s enemies) don’t want one to.
Getting enough sleep and having a purpose may be all that’s required! (That and not too many drugs.)
Thanks again as always and for your wonderful cat essay on Saturday! All who see this should go read it, even if they have already done so because it’s eminently re-readable!
The D
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I truly hope everyone is well again soon. It’s one of the hardest things to see your children hurting mentally or physically. Not to be a gloom monster I have to tell you that it is just as hard when they are in their fifties. You may not credit it but ’tis true. Love to all.
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Diane
In my experience mothers tend to even care more later. Even the most difficult relationships can display that. Still, it seemed unnatural behavior on my mother’s part; all I had to do when I had a cold or something was keep talking, soon enough I would say something to piss her off and she’d tell me to go to hell. The balance of antipathy was restored.
Leila
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Thank you, Diane. Your deeply human commentary is always an inspiration!
D
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My heartfelt sympathies for the present fix your twins are in, Dale, but like Leila said, all children are destined to live to 150+. I don’t know if you believe in this sort of thing, but I’ll pray for their swift recovery. I have no organized religious affiliation, but I do believe in God (and She acts in mysterious ways). Stay strong, DWB!
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Thank you, Bill.
I share your belief in “Something,” as well as your skepticism in regards to those human institutions which claim a too-direct connection to that something.
And thanks for the prayers!
Thanks, also, for all the great comments and commentary you’ve been posting for the writers of Saragun Springs. It is very much noticed, and appreciated, along with your own awesome fictional contributions as well.
Dale
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Hi Drifter
I hope you and your daughters make a full recovery soon–scary times.
Life does seem like a battlefield. I search for a peace that might be unattainable. The Bible says more or less: this place ain’t our home.
I wonder on the final day what task will be lying down before me? Will I reach from the other side in an attempt to pick it up?
We have a poor old German Shepherd named Willow (14) who is in her last days. It feels like she is in dog hospice.
Hang in there!
CJA
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CJA
Sorry to hear about Willow. Even though 14 is like three hundred in Big Dog years, it still sucks that the beings we love best have such limited lifespans. But 14 tells me that she was well cared for–she’s the oldest Shep I’ve ever heard of.
Leila
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Christopher
Poor Willow! My deepest sympathies at all levels. She has a beautiful name. I am glad I know the story of Rainbow Bridge.
Dale
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Dale
Thank you that means a lot to us!
Christopher
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Hi Dale
Our poor German Shepherd Dog, Willow just passed away. She’s crossing the rainbow bridge.
Hope things are better with you and your daughters.
Christopher
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Hello Christopher
I am sorry to hear about Willow. I know it is a tremendous, inexpressible pain.
Leila
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Hi Leila
Thanks, I really appreciate it.
Yes, it feels very sad and emptier around here without our beloved, Willow. Certain places in the house we expect to see her, and she is not there anymore.
She was really suffering and we couldn’t get her into the vet until Thursday to have her euthanized, but she blessedly passed this afternoon. She was such a sweet dog.
Christopher
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Christopher
I am truly sorry to hear about Willow. Beloved animals never really leave us, even when it’s time for them to go. My condolences at all levels. For what it’s worth, I happen to believe that Rainbow Bridge is a real place. (And while not in any hurry to get there, I very much look forward to it when the time comes.) Tell the Light Bringer I said hi.
Dale
“He will return to us our confiscated gods.” – Emily Dickinson
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Hi Dale
Yes, she is everywhere in this house. Her empty dog bed is sad to look at. She’s out back now with our other dog, her adopted brother, Caito. He passed away in 2017, so that is comforting. The Rainbow bridge sounds like a wonderful place! Thank you for your condolences.
Christopher
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Christopher
I think it’s the innocence and loyalty of animals that makes us miss them so much. They have a purity that us humans simply can’t compete with on that level. The memories their spirits leave behind are as real as anything that’s right in front of our eyes. I don’t believe their purpose is meaningless here and I do not believe it will be meaningless in the hereafter, either. Hang in there.
Dale
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You’ve revealed some nuggets of wisdom despite the fog of sickness, Dale. “what I forgot doesn’t mean it hasn’t affected me.” is something we all can ponder. Life is war … or at least a struggle, most of the time. Hoping you and the twins have a speedy recovery.
Ah, Willow, I can appreciate how much you’ll be missed.
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Thanks as always, David!
Everyone here is recovering nicely with the assistance of modern medicine in the form of antibiotics! I hope all is well with you and yours. Thanks again.
Dale
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Deeply affecting, both the words & the pictures. Truly a battlefield. May the twins make a speedy recovery & may their father continue his sterling work.
Geraint
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Thank you, Geraint!
Your understanding of what I’m always trying to get at is a great boon.
D
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