Tuesday, April 25, 2017

One Down, Two to Go

You'll forgive me for again invoking "that damned movie" as it is sometimes called by a few.  Toward the end of the cinematic version of 'A River Runs Through It," Norman's younger brother Paul lands a fish after a very dramatic swim with his bamboo rod held high.  He is congratulated and complimented by his father.  In the afterglow of the moment, Paul says something along the lines of, "I just need three more years before I can think like a fish!"

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 yearswould 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.

</FA>


12 comments:

  1. A reach-mend and a couple roll-mends to help make sure there is no drag in your drift.

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    1. Drag in my drift is a signature! That way when I catch a fish, I know it really, really wanted to be caught. ;)

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  2. Not to sound to mushy, but that's beautiful. And as I write this I am thankful that my buddy not only made it through some rough waters, but that he will be standing upright in those waters.

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    1. Not to sound too morbid, but I wasn't so sure I was going to make it through. And during the whole thing, I felt like I was just watching and waiting. But, upright I will be, wading staff in hand!

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  3. ... and good luck to you, Sir.

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    1. I'll take every bit I can get, Sir. Thanks!

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  4. I read Howard's post about your surgery. Glad to hear it was successful. I wish you the best with the rest of your journey.

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    1. Thanks, Kevin. Hope the outings are going well this spring!

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  5. I also read of your successful survival of the surgery via Howard's blog. My question to you, then, is: "How much did you pay Howard?"
    All kidding aside, glad to hear all went well. As a particular guide friend of mine likes to remind me (repeatedly), "MEND!"

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    1. I've met his wife, so Howard has to be nice to me now, lest I dig deeper and divest him of any pride he may have left...

      "MEND!" Great advice. But I'm trying NOT to catch anything else!

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  6. Chris
    Found out about your surgery through Howard's blog post; so glad you made it through the surgery and hope it will improve quality of life for you. Keep making those perfect cast and hitting the sweet spots!!! Thanks for sharing

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    1. Perfect casts? You obviously have me confused with someone elsel But I'm glad to still b here so I can keep working on it...

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