Endgames

by Bruce Kramer on Wed, 2013-12-18 05:00

Editor's note: The word disease is written dis ease by Bruce Kramer in all of his blogs, which coincides with the title of his blog, Dis Ease Diary.


Bruce Kramer, Ph.D.

Perhaps you have noticed that I haven’t blogged for nearly four weeks. There are reasons for this. My physical ability to write is more and more compromised by my lack of strength to pull up to the computer and my lack of stamina to stick with the writing once I am there. Of more significance is the fact that I have chosen not to put up two separate blog entries. It isn’t that I am afraid to share how I am feeling, especially when my feelings have to do with grief and loss. It isn’t that I am in such a bad space that I’m afraid no one will like me anymore.

It has more to do with the constant existential awakening that comes with dis ease, with this seemingly infinite process of winding down, yet moving at the speed of ALS. In the past two weeks, I have allowed myself for what seems like the very first time, the question, “Is this the beginning of the endgame?” What a question to ask, as if the moment of birth is not the beginning. But we aren’t conscious at the moment of birth like we are in the bloom of our adulthood, so the question takes on meaning even if it borders on the rhetorical.

My French muse Francis Cabrel sings the angst, “J’avais des rêves pourtant.”

Raising the question of the endgame is significant for me. Before, it felt like an academic exercise, one that fulfilled my need to stay ahead of symptoms and losses in a way that gave me the illusion of control. But as I look back on my control rituals, it is clear that they lead to this point: The endgame is coming. I don’t know when, but I can have faith in its presence now in my life, a new phenomenon for which to prepare. And in preparation it is useful to stop, to take stock, to recite the poetry of grocery lists and ledger sheets that account for gains and losses, mumbled psalms of what is in my capacity and what is not, utilitarian self-pity, borderline whingeing, yet keeping ahead as best I can, even though I know I am seriously falling behind.

The loss is easier to share than the litany.

I cannot help but feel robbed, not of immortality, but of the 30 years of healthy old age that I honestly thought was my future. ALS provides the perfect corrective to the best of plans. She grants knowledge that our imperfect physical envelopes in which we place so much importance, given to us for such a short time, always fulfill their design destiny and break down utterly and completely. There are so many ways to shorten our lives, and when you consider how many ways you could go, how easy it is to experience catastrophe, how unremarkable is death, then dying before one’s so-called time should probably be seen as more the norm than the exception. The 30 or so years that I like to believe would have been mine were it not for ALS are so minuscule in the scheme of the universe, that it is tempting to diminish their importance, to believe they are meaningless.

But they are my 30 years, and I had dreams and plans.

I planned to sleep in the arms of my one true love, to be awake, so very awake to her presence in my life. I planned to be there for my boys and their true loves and the children that they would have. I planned to cook for birthdays and anniversaries, Thanksgiving and Christmas, three-day weekends and one night chili cookoffs, holidays and holy days. I planned to be the husband and father and grandfather of legend. I planned to bring a rational voice and compassionate love to the education of children, the emotional healing of people, the design of systems. I planned to be the best friend anyone could ever have. Before ALS, I could see those plans opening into limitless vistas.

I am cured of planning, at least for the moment. Now, I pay attention to the losing — hand dexterity, back strength, neck strength, vocal presence — all of these to go along with the legs and arms and torso already gone. And with the losses, I have struggled to play catch-up and turn to new ways and old ways that I now realize are just barely ahead as the losses pile up behind. And yet, I am not cured. I still have plans — final words, time spent, memories, music.

I plan to end in a better space, always a better space.

If there is anything that I have learned from ALS, it is that the bad times are like changeable weather. If you have patience, things will begin to turn around. There is no big event, no one thing that turns me away from feeling sorry for myself toward that person I want to be. In spite of my whingeing, I work hard for spaces devoid of soul-killing feelings — deep resentment, crushing bitterness, prolonged anger. It isn’t that I don’t own major reserves of these feelings, but grim feelings have no payoff, they depress colors, muffle sounds, numb the touch and leave me hopeless in dis ease. So I do my best to acknowledge them, communicate them, concentrating on things that bring me back into the here and now space where the beauty of living is so much clearer, even if it feels shortened by circumstance.

Listen! Grimness is legitimate. Despair is normal. Helplessly hoping is most human. But I can handle it, we can handle it, it only overwhelms my body. My soul still sings. My spirit breathes.

So many people offer time and companionship, keeping me from loneliness, caring for such small yet important items as straightening my fingers and helping me adjust in my chair, providing thoughtful company, bringing bread. The times I can get out to church, to yoga, even to a wheelchair tune-up are a blessing, for the people whom I love touch me with their strength, and I feel better in spite of how fatiguing the logistics can be. The unconditional love of Ev and sons and daughters-in-love, of friends and colleagues, strengthens me for the eventual time to come when I know that ALS will overwhelm me, and the decisions we make together will be like pouring joy’s waters through the clarifying filters of sadness.

And of course, there is Hypatia — pure granddaughter.

In a funny way, the endgame opens a panoramic view. Quiet and starlit, soft and peaceful, waves and wonder, I just need to breathe into it, to open myself to its beauty, to not worry about the plans or the timing. I understand now that the plans I made were not so much about me but about everyone else whom I love. The love will find its own way if I will allow it the space. And I will be able to move through this no matter how hard it gets, if I will just stay open to the epiphanies and revelations on the horizon and right before me.

“J’avais des rêves pourtant.”

And the endgame is just one end, opening new beginnings.

About the Author

Bruce Kramer, Ph.D., was diagnosed with ALS in December 2010. An educator for his entire life, he served as the dean of the College of Education, Leadership and Counseling at the University of St. Thomas in Saint Paul, Minn., until October 2012. Since March 2011, he has written the Dis Ease Diary, reflections on living and dying with ALS, and is featured in Minnesota Public Radio’s Living with ALS series. Kramer is married to Evelyn Emerson, a teacher, and he has two sons, two “daughters-in-love,” and a grandchild on the way.

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