Weltanschauung

I. About Face

This was certainly not the way I planned to forego my chemotherapy sessions. I always abhorred the notion because I saw what it did to mom. Before breast cancer, long-flowing, crimson-colored tresses were her signature; what made her relatable to those in and outside the family circle. The lady with the red hair was the talking point amongst the village contingent on days when animus didn't give way to reason. But by the third infusion, the identity crisis had begun—at least for me. Coming to terms with how chemo was making her over had displaced my security. In absolutely no regard under the sun should a man’s mother become a stranger to him, but the writing on the wall told a grave story. She changed. I changed with her. So when I was diagnosed with Stage 3 lung cancer of my own, vanity wouldn’t let me grieve the grimness of the diagnosis, but the effects of what the treatment might reduce me to.

Treatment was to commence on the first Monday in February. But as it turns out, I won’t have to fight this battle. I won’t have to win this war. I won’t have to mourn mom if her cancer returns and she succumbs. I won’t have to comfort sis when the grief is sure to come in waves. I won’t have to reflect on the good times with dad. Neither will I have to pretend her demise doesn’t hurt. The plot twisted the fate of all parties involved:

I died first.

Killed by a drunk driver last night on the road to recovery.

Finally at a point where emotionally, I was coming to terms with what I couldn't control. It was a short journey. But that's fine because that's all that matters; not the destination. I lived strong. Lance would be proud.

II. Rave Review

As a child when dad would wax philosophical, he more often than not left me to hazard the guess. A bambino doesn’t quite have an idea of the abstract at that point, so the way I figured, he was better off trying to drown a fish rather than getting me to attend his school of thought.

Catchy and poetic his utterances sounded, I was put off by the theoretical juxtapositions. But there was one he stood by and one that stuck with me.

“The leaning tree doesn’t always fall first,” he would say.

And how proverbial it turned out to be that the youngest branch of our family tree withered the quickest.

When I began to laugh like dad, I thought the time was near. When sis began to bake cakes like mom, the message couldn't have been more clear. The universe was grooming us to become them in their stead. Nigh was the time for them to be caught up in the rapture, not me. The passing of the torch was at hand and sis and I would be tasked with becoming their equal. I was ready.

It didn't dawn on me that it was I who was on the cusp of transition when I began to chance upon relics of my youth. My miniature stonewashed denim wallet dad had fashioned from his old Levi's when I was a kindergartner. My Fisher Price music box pocket radio. Always did love its rendition of “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head.” My 2nd Grade report card. The “N” in conduct was still legible. All stowed away in one place in the old barn as if they were making it easy for me to savor their flavor one last time. I was living my life in review. I was grateful.

Dad had converted the barn into a makeshift storage unit for keepsakes that really no longer had a place in our lives but still had a place in our hearts. Everything from the broken power tiller granddad left him to scores of dusty German cookbooks with which mom used to nourish us all had a hand in repurposing the barn. The presence of the barn owl’s grace made it complete; gave it a bucolic feel.

Mom never cared for the owl. To her it represented a breach; much like her cancer. It was a totem of the metaphysical that she didn't particularly take to. Her being half Native American, she was conditioned to scorn his kind.

Per the lore, Native Americans believed that the barn owl was the bearer of bad news; the harbinger of doom. Where he was an unwelcomed guest, slow-singing and flower-bringing were sure to follow. People died; sometimes they didn't.

Don’t know if the owl had a stake in my exit or not, but I’m gone. Past tense material. Conversations now will begin with You remember when . . .?

It's just as well though. I’m fine. It's cool. I’m straight. I’m yet again finding myself at peace with what I can’t control and it feels good.

I have to chuckle at all the fake love I’m being showered with on social media however. Tributes abound from “friends” who would turn their head to avoid speaking when they saw me in the street are now amongst my most ardent mourners.

I won't miss that.

For that reason my casket will be closed come Sunday. It's in the will. Told mom and dad awhile back that if I ever preceded them, to not grant solace to those who will suddenly find it convenient to be in my company.

Mom and dad weren't supposed to bury me . . . but here I am.

I will miss mom's jägerschnitzel. The German half of her made shopping for clothes that fit a chore. I got it honest though. She loved to eat too.

From this point forward, when they gather, they’ll do it without me. It hurts in ways but in ways it doesn't. I had to go sometime. Someday they will too.

If I had a choice, I think I would want it this way. Mom's cancer returning hence her twirling in the reaper's arms, would have been too much for me. Her suffering with me left to futilely watch, I just couldn't live with that. And to my credit, I don't have to.

Mom, Dad, Sis . . . I Love You.