There
Here
Another huge transition. From basking in the 80 degree sunshine of the Florida Keys, to the frigid farm in Central Ohio. When I took off from Charlotte, last steamy June, the last place I thought I'd be spending a chunk of time was winter! But, true to the "go with the flow" spirit of UnTourism, here I am. Travelling and visiting has been wonderful, but hasn't yielded the serious writing time I needed to finish my next project. Before trekking off to Central America, I'm taking an opportunity that arose: an empty farmhouse, a killer wood-burning fireplace, back roads so snowed in I'll have nothing to do but write, write, write. Which is what I've been doing this week and Michael B. suggested I share some. Here is a somber essay I began writing while in Hawaii.
Papa B.
Kilauea bleeds, birthing earth younger than men who will die upon it. As will my father-in-law, weakening each minute while 130,000 gallons of molten rock pours from the volcano like thickly-beaten batter. He is beaten. By cancer, by its remedy, by societies’ value of life at any cost so that doctors who say there is no cure prescribe harsh treatments anyway. And by memories, unseen by MRIs and blood screens, but as erosive as the rapidly metastasizing cells.
In a state between wake and sleep, he reaches out for ghost objects and speaks to people I can’t see. He relives foxhole deaths and night patrols, calling into an imaginary radio for back-up, for air support, for salvation.
One evening, I wake to a tremor, metal roofing rattling against wall like an intruder forcing entry. I imagine a release of soul, his shedding of suffering the cause of the 4.8 magnitude earthquake instead of the Lo’ihi Seamount, 13,000 feet below sea level. The next morning, his breath still comes in shallow shakes.
How can we comprehend the human will to survive? Floyd James Thompson, the longest held American POW of the Vietnam War, endured nine years of torture and starvation after the plane crash that left him burned, bullet-wounded, and back broken. How much easier giving up would have been. Yet, when asked if he feels fortunate or forsaken, he can’t help thinking of those who didn’t come home at all, or the fact that he did. Like my father-in-law, who in his last living weeks, says repeatedly, “I would gladly trade my life for any one of theirs.” His regrets are real: time he didn’t spend, gifts he didn’t buy, words he didn’t speak. But, also real, is his peace, “I’m ready.”
70 million years ago, The Big Island of Hawaii began to evolve in nearly complete isolation. Over 90% of the native terrestrial flora and fauna are unique to the island. This level of endemism surpasses all other places on earth. And this is how it felt when I first started visiting my father-in-law there: secluded, exotic, idyllic.
When he dies, it becomes something else, a mass of rock on which I am trapped, confined to. For five weeks I’ve spoken in soft tones, signaled nurses, fetched blankets, scrubbed mold, listened, cried. There is nothing left to do but leave, shake off the tropical damp, anticipate a deep breath of dry, Southwestern air, look back through plane window at the ever-changing island, forever changed.
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