It was part of my stealth movement to naturalize myself amongst Bloomington. I, my surgical mask, my fairly Fifty-ish prep clothes, we all showed up at another lecture on campus, this time sponsored by the Center on American and Global Security.
The Center is under the direction of my old boss from India Studies, and a fine scholar of the modern and contemporary Indian political and nuclear scene, Dr. Sumit Ganguly. I have enjoyed a few fine scotches, many intriguing discussions, some fantastic books, and great speakers through Dr. G's good graces. He's a person I've found sympatico to how I view the world, what I believe an educated man is, a leader.
I arranged to meet up with Charles on campus after his workday was over, given that this lecture started at 4:30pm. It was to be given on Boko Harem and the workings of Islamic Fundamentalism in Nigeria, particularly the northern section. Three speakers, twenty minutes each, time for Q & A.
This was the first time that I would encounter Dr. G. after not seeing him in person for a year--a bit longer, in fact. I had no expectations, although I hoped we would be glad to run into one another. And we would have been so, had he recognized me.
Sitting across the room I could actually see him attempting to figure out if I was who he thought I was...or who exactly I might be if I weren't. I have to admit I found this initially amusing. We're talking aboout a fellow who knows people worldwide and I never knew him to have difficulty with their names or identifying them, often in pithy phrases that summed up their careers, or characters, or work, fairly handily. Then of course this struck me--I truly am not the Mark he knew.
And how could I be? In my surgical mark, about 50 lbs lighter than he last knew me, my biceps gone, my shape distorted, my face only one third visible. I remembered the day I found a reflective surface, about the third day after my first surgery in March, 2013, when I looked at myself to discover I did not recognize the ghost looking back at me.
Until that time, that place, my mental image ruled--when I spoke to the nurses, I saw Mark of six months prior speaking, that was the face that laughed, not this beat up facsmilie. From that time there have been more changes, more distortions, and I've tried to make myself look in the mirror occasionally to face what he now looks like--and he doesn't at all look like that Mark.
Yet, here I am, it's me. The dissonance of new reality crashing into old perceptions, a problem as old as Daniel Dafoe, if not older.
I stopped falling into depression fairly quickly--I mean, honestly, if I fell apart at the slightest reminder that of what's happened to me I wouldn't have made it very far in this life. I am daily reminded; I am reminded by the kid who plays basketball across the street who gawks at me. I am reminded when I leave the house by strangers. I am reminded when I encounter old friends who know I'm coming, and still I see a cloud of "wow" across their face. And, above all, I am reminded that all of this is ok because I'm still here to take note of it.
Yes, I have crawled through some sticky crap to make it to that moment of not being recognized--that was a problem that had no power no register upon me. It merely meant that all these wounds I've taken have been serious, but not fatal. And, it pointed out to me that I have not naturalized myself in my old town quite yet. I have not become the inevitability I'll have to become so that less staring is done in my direction.
Small Indiana towns love their quirky residents--so perhaps I can be one of those. The guy who speaks with an Ipad and looks like a joke but isn't, really. The guy who attends lectures because his brain could use some food, because life is for learning, and you have to move forward no matter who, or what, tries to keep you from doing so.
Today I received a sheepish email from Dr. G., asking if that was me at the last lecture of the semester. I assured him, as I would you, that not knowing me straight off isn't really the worst thing that could happen; in fact, it's rather understandable. I too remember myself as the guy who loved his morning pushups and I remember that I had pecs, and I remember that my arms were two-thirds larger than they are now.
I'm told that my eyes are still blue, and still sparkle sometimes, usually when I'm smiling. It's the only way you'd know I'm amused--my mouth doesn't make that movement anymore, and in public, it's covered anyway. But I'm in here, I promise. I still think the things I used to say out loud, I'm still vulgar, though likely I am less mean than was normal. I save my disdain for those that really need it--those who flat out, open-mouthed stare at me like a circus freak. They shall, I'm utterly certain, inherit the Earth.
On Friday I had my newest CT scan. Later this week, the doctor will tell me how that looks. This one goes from mid head to lower belly, to see if the cancer that spread to my lungs has been arrested or not, if it has spread anywhere else, if it is growing, to see if I'm recognizable inside, if they know me.
I think they'll find I'm doing better than they suspect. I truly hope so. I need the surgeons in Indy to believe I've got a heavy shot at a longer lifespan so they might support me in obtaining Surgery 2, and afterwards, to be fitted with the prosthetics that will smooth out my appearance, that will make my Micheal Jackson surgical masks unnecessary. Right now, because they believe the cancer spread in my lungs is a sign of a shortened timeline, they are loathe to suggest anything that costs a lot of money.
I want them to know me, inside and out. How worth the cost I can be.
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