The course of the movie branches away from the written story at this point. I have no complaints about how the screenplay was written or directed, and it makes perfect sense that it took the course it did. Yet something was missed at that fork, something that came from the rocks and echoes from the water.
A river, though, has so many things to say that it is hard to know what it says to each of us. As we were packing our tackle and fish in the car, Paul repeated, "Just give me three more years."Thirteen months ago, I concluded one of my essays with those words. I hoped for just a few more years of fishing. It seems like a reasonable request for someone with a progressive, degenerative neurological condition, right? I adopted it as a slogan, and I'm clinging, refusing to let it go. Not forever, but something more than tomorrow, next week, or next month would be nice. Two more would be great.
I've been asked the questions more than a few times over the past week: Any second thoughts? Are you nervous? And I've had to pause before answering, confused. I feel like I should be nervous or feel some form of fear. Not long ago, fear of this procedure filled a space inside me. That space is now empty vacuum. I've even searched for anxiety regarding those low probability, unspeakable outcomes. If it's there, it's an elusive beast swimming invisibly through the shaded places.
The fly is cast and I'm content to watch it drift.
See you downriver.