Deutsches Tagebuch: Eine (hoffentlich) erfolgreiche Behandlung

Am 16. April, musste ich um 5:30 Uhr morgens ins Krankenhaus, um mich eine Herzablation unterziehen zu lassen. Ich hatte mehr Furcht auf die Autofahrt dahin, da meine Frau, wähnte ich, zu alt wäre, uns in die Nacht hinauszuschleudern. Sie fuhr aber glänzend. Von der Ankunft an musste ich allein wegen der Pandemie bleiben. Nach der Registrierung nahm man ein Herzcomputertomogram. Der Techniker sagte mir, dass er Bier mit Nachnamen heisst. Mit i oder e, fragte ich. Mit zwei e's, kam die Antwort. Im Deutschen shreibt man jene gute Flüssigkeit B-i-e-r, fügte ich hinzu. Ein Arzt, der auch dabei war, fragte mich ob ich die Sprache von Goethe verstehe. Dann unterhielten wir in was sicherlich nicht seiner Muttersprache war. (Sie ist ebenso sicherlich auch nicht die meine). 

Letzte Erinnerung: der Narkosearzt befestigte die Maske auf mein Gesicht, und bat mich, tief einzuatmen. Zuerst probieren wir nur mit Sauerstoff, versicherte er mir, Gelogen! Ich schlief sofort ein.

Als ich aufwachte, ungefähr 5 Stunden später,  (so sagte man mir), war ich zuerst sehr benebelt. Als ich bewusster wurde, bemerkte ich, dass ich Katheter in beiden Leisten, eine Arterielinie am linken Arm, und eine Venenlinie am rechten, und auch ein Katheter am Hals haben musste.

Die Krankenschwestern waren alle hervorragend. Einige Stunden später, half eine mir ein paar Schritte nehmen. Plötzlich platzte mir eine Vene in der rechten Leiste auf--Blut war überall! Genug Blut, um mein ganzes rechten Bein wie eine Heizdecke aufzuwärmen! Man schleuderte mich ins Bett zurück; man drückte darauf, bis das Blut zu spritzen aufhörte. Als Beweis das dieses geschehen ist, habe ich immer noch eine grosse blaurote Flecke an jener Stelle.

Der Artzt kam und informierte mir, dass alles reibungslos abgegangen war. Müsse doch wenigstens ein Monat abwarten, um sich zu versichern, dass die Arrythmie geheilt worden sei.

Nirmala holte mich, und fuhr mich nach Hause. Sie ist so lieb!

Ich schreibe dieses 4 Tage danach. Bin noch ein bisschen ermattet, aber das ist zu erwarten. Mein Herz schlägt noch im normalaen Rythmus! Eine erfolgreiche Behandlung? Es scheint so.  Eine grosse Entlastung wird das sein; ich habe mit diesem Problem seit 30 Jahre gelitten. (Die erste Herzablation fand vor 4 Jahren statt; eine Verbesserung hat sie gewirkt, aber neulich kamen die Syptomen wie mit Rache zurück).

Ich habe Glück gehabt; froh bin ich zumute. Wenn ich Gott fände, würde ich mich bei Ihm herzlich bedanken. Aber das wird wohl nicht vorkommen. In der Zwischenzeit (hoffentlich eine längere) dank ich medizinischem Fortschritt, und, vor allem, meinem Arzt.

How Pleasant to be Absent!

1.

One of my favorite poems by Emily Dickinson is the entitled, "I'm Nobody!" It is a perfect example of the dictum that all literary writing is autobiographical. Although she is writing about herself, however, the poem is not confessional: when Dickinson uses the first person singular, that pronoun, which occurs so regularly in confessional poetry, is not to be rigidly identified with  Dickinson herself, as she once stated. She simply sets out to write a good poem, not to express her inner state. As Dickinson wrote in another poem, "Tell all the truth, but tell it slant," the inner state is expressed, but indirectly. Robert Frost, for instance, could never have written, "I'm Nobody!" The loneliness, the proud rejection of rejection evinced in this poem, did not reflect the way Frost related to the world. 

Here is the poem in its entirety:

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

Are you--Nobody--Too?

Then there's a pair of us--don't  tell!

They'd banish us, you know.

How dreadful--to be--Somebody!

How public--like a Frog--

To tell one's name--the livelong day--

To an admiring Bog!

2.

It's certainly an example of chutzpah on my part to dare write a companion piece to Dickinson's great poem, but that's what I did. My poem, compared to hers, is, to quote George Barker, like 'a little doggie following a brass band.' But this little doggie has a reason for its existence. Dickinson's poem is about the difficulties and triumphs of being radically different. (Dickinson's poetry was ahead of its time, and she knew it). Think of the pride she must have had to keep writing and writing without hope of an audience; think of the loneliness that eccentric genius had to suffer as well.

Being a nobody, however, is still being a human being, albeit a rejected one. What if you look at yourself not as an eccentric, but as a thing? The condition where one feels as real as a rock is well known to psychiatrists, and is referred to as "depersonalization." It occurs most frequently among the young and can be quite terrifying. When one's self-image as a human being vanishes; when one sees oneself as being no different from, say, a cabbage or a coffee cup, mental health often vanishes along with the subjective experience of being nothing. 

Is this always the case?

Decidedly not. Buddhism has taught since ancient times that there is no abiding self; this is the doctrine of anatta. The purpose of this doctrine is not to increase suffering, but is an attempt to eliminate, or at least, to reduce it. The knowledge that the self is illusory is a factor of Buddhist enlightenment, a goal worthy of striving for and which promises perfect peace.

Most scientists agree that the self is an illusion as well. Every element inside a person can be found in the environment. We know a lot about which areas of the brain causes sensations, when stimulated, such as seeing and hearing. But the location of the self has never been located, and, in my opinion, never will be. The mistaken belief that one is separate from the environment is a trick of evolution, for which we can all be grateful, since if one didn't have a feeling of individuality, humans as humans would cease to exist. 

Just as we have learned that Earth, cosmically speaking, is nothing special, neither, cosmically speaking, are you.

The objective experience of being nothing is the knowledge that everything is connected. It is called wisdom, which gives rise to a deep feeling of contentment. You might not be cosmically important, but you are just as important as anyone--or anything--else. An illusion that feels like a person might as well act like one, and, for practical purposes, is one. Wisdom keeps everything in perspective, however. We play our roles so convincingly that it is natural to lose ourselves in them. I imagine the impersonal author and director of the play with a smile on its face. We need periodic flashes of wisdom, so we can get a glimpse of the entire stage and our true place on  it. When this occurs we cannot help but be 'beside ourselves with joy'--the definition of ecstasy.

It is said that the difference between a great sage and an ordinary individual is that the sage remains in cosmic consciousness, while the individual comes in and out of it. The latter is good enough for me. (Fully enlightened persons are, after all, extremely rare, if they exist at all).

The ecstatic experience of realizing that everything is connected, the opposite pole of depersonalization, is indeed a very great gift.

Words, words, words. Here is the poem:

I'm not nobody,

I'm nothing. What are you?

Are you whatever, too,

fragments, broken mirrors, Who

shattered into shards?

How pleasant to be absent!

How foibled, like the drop

who thinks it full fills billabongs,

yet desiccates like snot!

The poem was first published in The Loch Raven Review, Volume 17, 2021.

The Wisdom of the Aged

the blind poet

is satisfied

one out of three

how can vision 

lack in sight while

the third eye sees

This poem was first published in Loch Raven Review, Volume 17, 2021.

Here is some background to this poem: I've been having serious problems with my vision. For a difficult while, I thought I was going blind, and was about to take up braille! Things are better now; I can still read, albeit only with one eye.

The original title of the poem was 'poeta caecus,' Latin for 'the blind poet,' such as in Homerus poeta caecus erat. 'Poeta,' like 'agricola' is a grammatical exception, since it is a masculine noun with a feminine ('a') ending. One might have expected the Latin to be 'poetus,' but that would be incorrect. (Maybe a prescient ancient Roman wanted to avoid the word, 'poetus,' since it might be confused in the future with POTUS, which almost always is its antonym).

The poem contains six lines of four syllables each. Its subject is the wisdom that (often) increases with age. Although vision, along with other bodily functions, deteriorates, the third eye, wisdom, can more than compensate for the loss of visual acuity with a spectacular, broader 'view' of life and death, thus enabling one to 'see' that everything is connected. Most important is that one, thus inspired,  acts accordingly. At least that's the ideal. Research does indeed indicate that older folks tend to be happier; now you know why.