Struggle of Others

It is difficult, at best, to describe the experience. A good friend was telling me yesterday of her son’s on-going struggle with college level dyslexia. While he has it contained it is certainly far from controlled. She was sharing with me his latest essay, this in English class, on the subject of fascism, a paper she was asked by her son to edit and critique. A task she was pleased to preform. It was when I asked about the quality of the report that she confided in me that while his writing is very good, he relies heavily on a thematic template to adhere to the guidelines established by the professor. There seems to be legitimate magic in the structure of beginning, middle and end, or of introduction, debate and conclusion. His problem with vision and cognitive analysis is suppressed when in rigid compliance with these standard guidelines, and he does well with the process. A situation that, of course, got me to thinking. 

We use guides, templates, formats, models and a thousand other ways and means to keep our writing on topic and moving towards the direction of clarity and eventual success. Is this not the very reason we write? I have a story to tell. I wish to tell it well. My ‘goal’ is for you to have an epiphany upon completion that prompts a positive reaction. From Madison Avenue copy writers to Steven King, this holds up under severe criticism and critique. 

From the complete objectivity of the Zen practitioner to the exaggerated cries of conspirators and propagandists taking subjectivity into a completely new orbit, we have, we always have, options. 

The most important and utilitarian of which is our choice of response. My friends story triggered an avalanche of emotion. It snowed on my focus. OMG I thought, how much more of a challenge could one bear on that path? Courage is one thing, but when you can’t read a sentence without second guessing your understanding of it, there are more re-entry problems in Houston than even the NASA nerds can fix. After our conversation and as we warmed up and calibrated for the movie ride, I tried to process the dialogue and ‘take away’ something of value. 

Am I happy that my friend’s son is doing well? Absolutely. Do I recognize the hardship and additional effort he, and then she, must endure just to submit a decent English essay under these conditions? Of course I do. Is there something else available here that I am missing? Yes.

There almost always is. 

I regress to a incident that took place before my diagnosis. It took place about five years ago. I will try to tell you how weird, odd and scary it was. 

I am sitting in my favorite greasy spoon cafe, the very last of a dying breed. I sit at the crowded counter and order one pancake, hash browns two eggs, scrambled, and a cup of coffee. The waitress doesn’t write this down she simply grabs the coffee pot and shouts the order to the cook. I ask the guy next to me if the newspaper between us is his and he replies that it is not his but mine. I fish for the opinion page and start to read as the waitress sets up my feasting area. I take a sip of the industrial strength joe and start to read the commentary. 

And nothing makes sense. I am seeing the words, I know that they represent real life things, but none of it connects to my understanding of them. I put the paper down and take another sip of coffee, removing my glasses and rubbing my eyes during the thirty-second time out. I bring the paper back to viewing distance and try again. Nothing. This time I have the additional experience of the prior failure so I commit to solving the mystery. But I cannot make sense of the words. I see that the font is showing ‘house’ but the words no longer bring associated memory. Jesus, I think, I have finally gone stared-raving bat-shit crazy. I see but I cannot read. Worse, I cannot understand what the words are intended to signify. Panicked, I consider my response to a stop sign where I no longer remember what stop means. How, tf, am I gong to pay the check when I have no clue as to what a dollar, two ninety-five means? 

Turns out I was suffering from an oxygen deficit from my yet to be diagnosed atrial fibrillation. I went home took a shower and an afternoon nap. Next day I could read again. All was groovy until the next indecent when, armed with the experience of the first go-around, I immediately took action, moving myself out of harms way (and into the hospital.) 

In this narrative I have described something I once considered unimaginable. I wish this malady on no-one. Although it has to have some tangible benefit for my not too distant response to dementia, Alzheimer's or just plain old sarcopenia served up with a side of atrophy, it is, and always will be, the response that matters. 

Rendering my take-ways to this: Practice your responses. Stay calm. Be aware. Be objective. Have a back-up plan. There are many templates for success, find the one that best matches the prodding of your soul.

And perhaps most importantly, appreciate the struggle of others as we bridge this chaotic and cathartic chasm of circumstance.