The Living-Dead...

Unbeknownst to me, I died at some point during 2006. On January 1, 2006 statistics were calculated by various organizations who intimated that during the course of 2006 approximately 1.4 million people would receive a new cancer diagnosis and roughly 565,000 would die from cancer. That is nearly two million people for those who excel at discerning spatial relations, but fail at basic arithmetic. Determining my unique diagnosis and adding to it my less than favorable prognosis would have lead almost all cancer experts to determine that I would die before 2007. Be that as it may, I assure you that I am indeed writing this blog today February 6, 2009. I may, however, be writing as a resurrected being. That situation has not been determined as of yet.

In any event, I’m alive, which seems a trivial statement out of context. I assume that you, who are reading this, are similarly alive. For me, though, that statement means something special. It means something especially since at one point I was dead. There is something altogether skin-crawling about hearing the eerily calm voice of a doctor, after having read your record, telling you, “It’s a surprise to see you alive still.” I would think that surprises are not exactly good things when dealing with cancer, but I sure do feel mighty special every time I can make some doctor give himself a chuckle. I do like to respond saying, “I’m glad I can hang around long enough to pay for your kids’ college tuition.” Then the sadistic son-of-a-bitch wants to slice me open and look at my brain.

I have begun to understand that I am quite good at almost dying. It’s living with which I am having the problem. I cannot seem to keep a steady stream of days together in which I am undeniably alive. If I were to guess, I would assume that right now I am actually dead, but I am still able to walk and talk and gesticulate in the likeness of a living human being. Forgive me for saying so, but it would seem that it’s much more fun to be dead and walking amongst the living than it would be to be living and walking amongst the dead. That’s just my guess if one had to choose. Don’t throw your hands up in disbelief that I’m calling myself dead either. Go to www.dictionary.reference.com and enter in dead. The Random House Dictionary lists forty-two separate definitions of the word dead with only the first three definitions meaning dead in the classical sense. Let’s use the thirty-sixth definition of the word (it seems just as arbitrary to choose number one as it does to choose number thirty six): the period of greatest darkness, coldness, etc.

As stated though, I am exceedingly successful at almost, but not quite dying. It gets to the point sometimes where you are so used to being almost dead that it becomes commonplace. I forget what it’s like to feel fully alive. I no longer remember what it’s like to say, “See you in a few weeks,” and know that I would actually see them. I only know how to plan for the future accepting that it might be a future that I will never see.

There is a set of beliefs that propose the notion that one’s name dictates the trajectory of one’s life. For instance, in theory, being named Samuel, which means “his name is God”, would affect how that person progressed. Perhaps, he would be more attuned to the teachings of monotheism in its totality. Katherine means pure, so perhaps a person bearing this name would have elements of her that would be considered pure. Andrew means strong, manly, and courageous. Obviously, this theory is astoundingly correct! I’ve died two or three times in the last two and a half years and this living-dead carcass, with manliness, strength, and courage, will not go gentle into that good night. It will rage against the dying of the light.

My body may be bruised and scarred like the prize fighter who has reached the winter of his career. My innards may be the distorted incurable filigree crafted by the most malevolent of artisans; however:
"NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist – slack they may be – these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be" – Gerard Manley Hopkins “Carrion