Last night, early this morning actually, before I left
the hospital, I posted a photo on Facebook of my commute to or from the
hospital, I can’t remember which. The photo was taken while I was stuck in traffic
in Chinatown. I spend a lot of time in the once familiar congestion of this big
city. It has now been over a week that my routine has involved going to and
from the hospital. Most nights I stay with Shauna from around 8PM until 2AM,
then I drive back across town up to North York. I get back to E.T.’s house,
walk Jasper, and then I crash. Anyone who goes through one of these marathon
hospital visits knows that it can chip away at you. Thankfully, the neurology
ward is much more peaceful and quiet than the stroke ward was a few years back at
Sunnybrook. It is a kind of water torture emotional drip, and the silent
cacophony of illness hangs in the air. Especially at night. In the background,
on television sets, with the sound muted, there is the omnipresent reportage of
the latest terrorist attacks. Spain, Charlottesville, Alt Right boneheads; bad news
makes good news. I am reminded of that scene in the movie “As Good As It Gets”
when Jack Nicholson’s character is at his therapist’s office (I believe) and he
asks the existential question which is the title of the movie. Still, I haven’t
lost faith in humanity.
I have written a lot in the last week about being
thankful, and I genuinely am. There is nothing like an extended hospital wake-up
call to re-adjust one’s priorities. No matter what Shauna’s prognosis – and the
uncertainty is very hard – I know our lives have been blessed so far and I
think (hope) we’ve still got a lot more good times to come. This is simply the exhaustion
talking. This past weekend was strange, because I spent a lot of time driving
around downtown Toronto, in neighborhoods where some of my musician friends
would likely be performing. The drive home is especially surreal. As I roll
slowly through Friday and Saturday night crowds of (mostly young) people,
recently kicked out of bars after last call, stumbling around in the streets, smoking
cigarettes, smoking weed, drunk, loud, carrying on, I feel so detached from
their celebration. Hotshots race around in $300,000 Italian sports cars, a
drunken girl is rocking back and forth on her heels, texting someone (who is
probably ten yards away from her), visibly disheveled from her night of excess.
Little scenarios that remind me of me. I was one of those careless young barflies,
a long time ago. It seems like a very
long time ago. In some weird way, I cherish these existential moments of sobriety.
I’m not finished celebrating, I just do it differently these days. There is a
profound and indescribable clarity to my fatigue. As I weave in and out of the
erratic (and probably inebriated) drivers, I am in my own world. The Tragically
Hip plays the soundtrack to my trip home, and in the traffic and the red lights
reflecting off the glistening blacktop, I feel an odd peace. I have accepted my
lack of control. Shauna is going to be OK; that is what I tell myself.
Of late, I’ve been in a dry spell with my songwriting,
but I always keep a voice recorder in my car. This past week, the muse has
visited me more than a few times. I think of all the beautiful songs I’ve heard
recently, songs like “Red Lights In The Rain” by Stephen Fearing. Apprehension
about loss is one of my many inspirations to write songs. As I said, writing is
my therapy.
- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2017 ALL
RIGHTS RESERVED
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