Survival and the Grapes of Acceptance
My Time as a Human is a longer format essay style blog intended for the general public. The scribblings are being crossposted here for your convenience, but please feel free to visit the site itself, http://mytimeasahuman.com
The nice thing about fires, hurricanes, mudslides and terrorist attacks is that, if you survive, you have fellow survivors. Without them, there is no one to validate the experience or share the outcome. Here in Amsterdam, even more so than in Fuzhou, people continue to confound and even irritate me by going about their lives as normal. “Here, have one of these delicious beers.” Don’t they see that little more than a week ago I could hardly speak or walk because my brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen? Don’t they know what it means to watch, consciously, as the ability to interact with the world goes away and hands become trembling, useless flags on the ends of slow moving sticks?
And yet, the worlds continue. People stand cold and shaking, smoking behind barroom exits, too lazy to end the addictions that continuously pull them away from time with friends. Meaningless relationships continue, neither person willing to make the first step to improve or end them. Everyone’s universe exists when their eyes are open, and ends when they drift off to sleep. My own sleep has no effect on them.
But this is not true either. Some of the earth’s humans were very aware of my potential sleep and cared that I existed, that I continue to exist for a bit longer. The outpouring of concern and affection was truly wonderful and my response to it was, sadly, an old pattern of mine played out yet again.
It took a long time to go public with my plunging health. For some reason I have always been obsessed with putting my own needs behind the needs of others and I refuse to become a burden or worry to anyone, to the point of absolute absurdity. The more I need help, the more fervently I refuse, captured most vividly in a moment years ago when I was homeless.
I was emotionally upset because of a breakup and without anywhere to go was living in a car, as one often does. (Well, OK, this one.) I managed to get internet access by going to the public library with a tiny parade of homeless people each morning and washed my face in restaurant sinks. At some point I stopped by my friend Eric Peterson’s house. As we were talking, he noticed that I hadn’t eaten much and pulled out a bowl of grapes and put them on the table. They were fresh and cool and I love the feel and sweet taste of grapes. When I didn’t take any, he began offering them to me. I refused. The more he insisted, the more angrily I resisted. I couldn’t possibly accept the grapes or anything else.
It was Angela Lee who used her shrewd powers of human understanding to trick me. She explained that she needed help. Her lawn needed mowing and she needed someone to watch her dogs while she was away. If only someone would live in her spare bedroom for a while and take care of the place… I couldn’t possibly refuse to help a friend. I moved in and suddenly had a roof over my head and a kitchen to cook in. I had dogs to care for and a way to earn my keep.
Posting publicly from China to let people know the severity of my situation was extremely difficult. It was an acceptance that something really was horribly wrong. It put the burden of worry onto my friends and family. It implied a need for help.
By the time I had to get to a hospital or buy a ticket out of Fuzhou, I had no choice but to accept help. I couldn’t even type well enough to buy a ticket and I was too confused to find my way around a hospital. At the same time, people from around the world began flooding me with concern and offers to fly in or fly me out. I was overwhelmed by both the outpouring of concern, the sense that my situation mattered to other people, and a tremendous sense of guilt. I was forever trying to find ways to keep people updated, and assure them that things would be fine, at the same time I was working towards an acceptance that there was every chance I might not recover. (Carbon monoxide poisoning has an extremely variable recovery rate. Many times the damage is permanent, while just as many times people recover over years.)
Once in Taipei I made two big counterintuitive decisions. The idea of struggling through a 23 hour flight to the US and fighting lawyers and doctors through cold heartless hallways to an almost certain debt for life made the decision to not fly home easy. The oddest decision, for me, was around who might have flown to my aid. Following the same pattern as above, allowing my parents to come meant accepting that something was terribly wrong. It meant bringing people I cared about into a situation where they didn’t know the language or culture and wouldn’t have anything to do but worry about me. I would, effectively, be a burden. Allowing my friend Ori to come, a guy who has sworn to travel to Asia for a year and never left, a guy who can delight in sleeping on a train station floor, was a way to help him get into motion and do what he’s wanted to do for so long. There was no guilt in that, in helping a friend, although in the end I decided against having anyone fly in.
I still have some recovering to do. I’m here in Amsterdam because I couldn’t possibly miss the opportunity to help show a film that I’ve been a part of for twelve years. In classic form, now that I’m stronger and more able I’m now exhilarated by the idea of having my parents in Taipei. But following this I am going to do my best to slow down and give myself a break for a while. I’ll give myself a few grapes that, perhaps, I’ve earned. One day maybe I’ll learn to accept the grapes when I have nothing to offer in return.
photo links to photographer’s site