Banish Misfortune

“You can get the monkey off your back, but the circus never leaves town.” Anne Lamott

Following a gentle knock at the hospital room door, an indescribably cheerful young woman enters the room bearing a large plastic shopping bag. Her name is Liz, and she is an occupational therapist. She is here to show the 400 pound man in the chair how to make his life easier when he is released to go home.

The bag proves to be full of clever devices. We start with a nice spring loaded plastic and metal claw that will alleviate the need for the immense man to bend over while removing his socks. He smiles ruefully at Miss Liz, who is after all trying to do him a good turn, but there is shame in his eyes.

Who the hell is this fatso, trying so hard to accept this young woman’s help with grace?

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A tenet of all University creative writing programs dictates that the best writing is deeply expository. The great artist reveals all, plumbs the darkness of his or her own soul and illuminates it for all to see. I always aspire to write well, but I have a problem that will likely keep me from ever being hailed as a new Hemingway. I am a late middle age guy from blue collar stock, raised by pretty conservative people who mostly kept their troubles to themselves. As a result, I have decided that some of fatso’s story is none of your fucking business.

But I can tell you some things.

At some level, we are slaves to the things that delight us. That list of things is pretty long and varied. Sex, food, intellectual curiosity, love, professional accomplishment, money, competition, physical exertion, sleep, kids, mind altering substances, and music come to mind and comprise the tiny tip of the iceberg of things that float our boats. This need to be happy and stimulated turns out to be a complicated thing. On one hand, desire keeps us alive and moving forward and is responsible for every great thing our species has done. On the other, desire can carry us away to a place so far and alien that we can barely recognize ourselves.

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Young Liz goes on to explain the wonderful handled sponge that will allow fatso to comfortably wash unreachable places in the shower. There is also the miraculous plastic tube on which sox are fitted. Without needing to bend, a foot is placed in the tube, a plastic handled rope is pulled, and the sock magically threads itself onto the foot.

The big guy in the chair smiles and tries to be cheerful and gracious, but there is a stirring in him now that he has not felt for a long time. His shame is being elbowed aside by something stronger, even a little fierce. It is his dignity.

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We all have plans. We all see the arc of our own lives stretching to the future. We scheme and dream, make preparations, push toward the light. We can see our life’s partners and unborn babies, our successful careers, that cool house we will build, our amazing trip to Venice. We work toward these goals sometimes with single minded intensity, and we’re taught that drive, character, and attention to detail will overcome all obstacles. The world is full of self-help books that will tell you all about it.

Horseshit.

To wit: maybe half of a life is the product of what is put into it. The other half is the part missing from the self-help books. Per the entropy and general randomness that governs the universe, some shit just happens. People you love up and die. Love comes or goes suddenly and unlooked for. Economies and politics change. Storms and car wrecks and other disasters bring wreck and ruin. Opportunities come out of nowhere or are yanked out from under you like a shabby carpet. People we’ve known forever change for good or ill. Any damned thing can happen, and you control none of it. The things you were planning for, the things you wanted most, needed most, can turn into dust before your eyes.

So you must adjust and rethink things. You must roll with the punches. You must invent a new future, see new opportunities for what they are, recognize the good things that surround you and cultivate them. Failure to do so can be a death sentence.

Like fatso, you can walk away from the smoking remains and brood on your mistakes and misfortune and missed opportunities. You can assuage your need for happiness with other things. From this dark country come alcoholics, addicts, suicides, and yes, the morbidly obese. They are all engaged in digging their own graves.

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But Fatso is part of a tiny and very fortunate minority. A combination of sheer unholy terror and the support and love of his family and friends have had the effect of Scrooges ghosts. He understands that it doesn’t have to be this way. The vigorous, happy, 250 pound man turns out to be alive and well inside him. Now, as Liz approaches him with one last helpful device, the Bear suddenly appears.

“Now Mr. Baker, this tool will make it easier to wipe yourself after you go to the bathroom. Would you like to see how it works?”

Fatso in his chair with his backless gown and an I.V. in each arm leans forward until his very large and very serious face is just an inch or two from the smiling young woman’s. The Bear growls deep like distant thunder.

“No. I don’t think so.”

It rattles the poor kid, and he has to apologize and thank her profusely for her kindness. After she leaves, he smiles to himself in his chair. He can’t wait to get out of here.

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