Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
Ira's fight with the man
[I wrote this when Peter was dying; it wasn't a certainty then, but we all pretty much knew--inncluding Peter himself. When I originally wrote this post, I didn't want to use his name. Out of respect, even reverence for him, I suppose. At the time I still hadn't realized to what extent I loved him. Sadly, that didn't happen until the last few days of his life. He knew before I did. I believe he always knew. And beneath all of my convoluted masks, I suppose I did too. -fs, 8/7/10]
i don't remember exactly how long ago he told me he suspected something was wrong, seriously wrong. he'd been getting thinner and thinner over the last year. he is a man who has practiced denial as diligently as some of us practice yoga or eat a healthy breakfast. so in spite of sensing something was wrong, he did nothing to deal with it head-on.
we've known each other for more than 25 years. and through that time we've been lovers, friends, enemies, and everything in between. he's a self-avowed "tap dancer," a master in bullshit--not just to others, in fact primarily to himself. one friend described it well. "when he takes off the tap shoes, he's wearing another pair." and all his life he's talked about beating "the man." the same friend who talked about his "tap shoes" said that "the man" is really ira himself.
but ira is an enigma. there is a beauty that resides in him, something deep and soulful that is so strong that in spite of broken promises, money owed, manipulation, lying, cheating, and a slew of traits and events that no one wants to deal with, he has an assorted group of friends from many eras of his life who have managed to stick around. because somewhere inside him, all too often shrouded by the more acrid, ignoble parts, is a delightful person who views and appreciates the world with the same innocent delight as a wonderful little boy. the evening of the day that he was diagnosed with esophogeal cancer, i stood by the window of his hospital room that looked out into the Marin County, California hillside. The face of the pale yellow full moon hovered against the charcoal sky. I told ira to take a look. "Oh wow," he said. And he looked at that moon with the same wonder I had seen so many times during all the years I've known him--whenever he was appreciating the beauty in the world. He stared at the moon for what seemed like a very long time. And I fought hard to hold back the tears.
at least a year ago, it seems, his doctor had prescribed a series of diagnostic tests, none of which he had done. then, just a few days before christmas '07, i received a call from a mutual friend, stephen, who had made it a point to visit ira or at least check in by phone on a daily basis. he'd been doing this for several months, watching a gradual and very perceiveable decline. stephen called me from ira's house and spoke to me in a low, but urgent voice. ira was visibly dehydrated, despondent, and more than likely stoned out of his mind on pot and percoset, the later prescribed for pain in his foot, but to what degree had he abused it? stephen reported that ira was lying on his sofa in essentially the same position he had been in the night before--a small bowl of soup balanced perilously on his stomach, barely touched. stephen urged me to come over, to help convince ira he needed to go to the hospital. lynn, one of ira's neighbors and a long-standing friend, was there too. and now she was headed across the street to engage the help of her partner, a nurse who works with AIDS patients in correctional facilities in the Bay Area.
when i arrived, ira was still on the couch, in what had become a ridiculously disshevelled, dirty house. ira sat up and managed to walk to the kitchen, where he put his soup bowl in the sink. i tried to reason with him--as had stephen and lynn before me, that he needed immediate medical attention and that the best thing he could do for himself right now would be to go to the hosptial. he balked at the idea, lashing out with a sudden force that didn't seem possible, "not now. maybe later, but not now." by this time, lynn returned with her partner. with straight-shooting urgency, she assured ira she would help him seek hospice, if indeed he was going to die, and that she would help make certain that he would not die in a hospital--something he had long feared--that he would die at home. he agreed to go to the hospital.
rather than calling for an ambulance, lynn called the local fire station to request a fire truck. she asked that they keep it all lowkey. no sirens, no big deal. they agreed, but that's not how it happened. when the firetruck approached ira's house, it was with the usual fanfare we associate with big red fire trucks.
the crew was efficient and treated ira with patience and kindness. one of the attendants asked him a few basic questions, to make sure he wasn't being taken somewhere against his will. and he took his vital signs. then, bundled up in a goose down jacket, and wearing a beret and long, aviator-type scarf wrapped twice around his neck, a thoroughly weak, emaciated, desperate and frightened ira was positioned into a wheelchair and transported to the back of the fire truck.
and that's how it began. ira is a man who has lived his life as a charmer, a master of ceremonies, a raconteur. he was a talented music producer who tap danced his way in and out of alliances--professional and personal, managing to disappoint others nearly as much as himself. he's dug himself into holes of various sorts and relied on others to dig him out. and now--with all the good wishes, his promises of transformation and redemption, amidst owing money and trips to the pot store, ira is still ira, fighting the final battle against a ravaging poison that exists beyond the touch of his smiles or tears.
i don't remember exactly how long ago he told me he suspected something was wrong, seriously wrong. he'd been getting thinner and thinner over the last year. he is a man who has practiced denial as diligently as some of us practice yoga or eat a healthy breakfast. so in spite of sensing something was wrong, he did nothing to deal with it head-on.
we've known each other for more than 25 years. and through that time we've been lovers, friends, enemies, and everything in between. he's a self-avowed "tap dancer," a master in bullshit--not just to others, in fact primarily to himself. one friend described it well. "when he takes off the tap shoes, he's wearing another pair." and all his life he's talked about beating "the man." the same friend who talked about his "tap shoes" said that "the man" is really ira himself.
but ira is an enigma. there is a beauty that resides in him, something deep and soulful that is so strong that in spite of broken promises, money owed, manipulation, lying, cheating, and a slew of traits and events that no one wants to deal with, he has an assorted group of friends from many eras of his life who have managed to stick around. because somewhere inside him, all too often shrouded by the more acrid, ignoble parts, is a delightful person who views and appreciates the world with the same innocent delight as a wonderful little boy. the evening of the day that he was diagnosed with esophogeal cancer, i stood by the window of his hospital room that looked out into the Marin County, California hillside. The face of the pale yellow full moon hovered against the charcoal sky. I told ira to take a look. "Oh wow," he said. And he looked at that moon with the same wonder I had seen so many times during all the years I've known him--whenever he was appreciating the beauty in the world. He stared at the moon for what seemed like a very long time. And I fought hard to hold back the tears.
at least a year ago, it seems, his doctor had prescribed a series of diagnostic tests, none of which he had done. then, just a few days before christmas '07, i received a call from a mutual friend, stephen, who had made it a point to visit ira or at least check in by phone on a daily basis. he'd been doing this for several months, watching a gradual and very perceiveable decline. stephen called me from ira's house and spoke to me in a low, but urgent voice. ira was visibly dehydrated, despondent, and more than likely stoned out of his mind on pot and percoset, the later prescribed for pain in his foot, but to what degree had he abused it? stephen reported that ira was lying on his sofa in essentially the same position he had been in the night before--a small bowl of soup balanced perilously on his stomach, barely touched. stephen urged me to come over, to help convince ira he needed to go to the hospital. lynn, one of ira's neighbors and a long-standing friend, was there too. and now she was headed across the street to engage the help of her partner, a nurse who works with AIDS patients in correctional facilities in the Bay Area.
when i arrived, ira was still on the couch, in what had become a ridiculously disshevelled, dirty house. ira sat up and managed to walk to the kitchen, where he put his soup bowl in the sink. i tried to reason with him--as had stephen and lynn before me, that he needed immediate medical attention and that the best thing he could do for himself right now would be to go to the hosptial. he balked at the idea, lashing out with a sudden force that didn't seem possible, "not now. maybe later, but not now." by this time, lynn returned with her partner. with straight-shooting urgency, she assured ira she would help him seek hospice, if indeed he was going to die, and that she would help make certain that he would not die in a hospital--something he had long feared--that he would die at home. he agreed to go to the hospital.
rather than calling for an ambulance, lynn called the local fire station to request a fire truck. she asked that they keep it all lowkey. no sirens, no big deal. they agreed, but that's not how it happened. when the firetruck approached ira's house, it was with the usual fanfare we associate with big red fire trucks.
the crew was efficient and treated ira with patience and kindness. one of the attendants asked him a few basic questions, to make sure he wasn't being taken somewhere against his will. and he took his vital signs. then, bundled up in a goose down jacket, and wearing a beret and long, aviator-type scarf wrapped twice around his neck, a thoroughly weak, emaciated, desperate and frightened ira was positioned into a wheelchair and transported to the back of the fire truck.
and that's how it began. ira is a man who has lived his life as a charmer, a master of ceremonies, a raconteur. he was a talented music producer who tap danced his way in and out of alliances--professional and personal, managing to disappoint others nearly as much as himself. he's dug himself into holes of various sorts and relied on others to dig him out. and now--with all the good wishes, his promises of transformation and redemption, amidst owing money and trips to the pot store, ira is still ira, fighting the final battle against a ravaging poison that exists beyond the touch of his smiles or tears.
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