Monday, June 4, 2012

Inevitability Remains

True.  That's what inevitability does, it remains.  That's its job, to remorselessly, incessantly, be there as a future certainty.  But it's an overused feeling, the feeling of inevitability, for only one thing consistently proves inevitable in human experience, doesn't it?

My last post had me running ahead of the curve somewhat; counterintuitively buying time (time to think, choose, act, etc) by hastening my physical demise consciously a little.  It seemed I had found starvation point, the caloric intake at which I was comfortable enough, just, but still not noticeably losing weight.

But weight is a funny thing, especially when it's 50kg hung on a once-6ft frame.  I say "once-6ft" because I am somewhat bent and hunched now; even the discs of my spine are compressed tightly by this maddening disease.  Weighing in today, full after a whole bunch of water, a feed, and with swollen ankles intactly swollen, I am a couple of kilos down.  That and the weakness, and I am brought back down immediately to my inevitability.  This illness is taking my life, or put another, less combative way, I have no choices really anyway.  Still, it was nice to have a few days there where I could sit and feel more empowered to choose my moment, as it were.  But now ... no such luxury of illusion.  My stomach and GI tract generally have already adapted to the new volumes and experience tells me that there can be no reversal.  This won't stretch out.  I can't feed any more than I do now.  That is to say, already it transpires that I cannot feed enough.

That's fine.  I still plan on choosing a moment to stop.  Choosing is totally the wrong word, actually.  What I mean is identifying, yes, identifying the moment.  Being There for it.  Making it something concrete, acknowledging it as a passing.  As a Moment.  Remembering now (and thank you O Big Everything for reminding me so clearly again) that I have no say in its inevitability, of course.

I said a goodbye today.  It was my first "I'm never going to see you again" moment.  (I shall insert the lack of inevitability disclaimer here just for form's sake however; you never know).  It was painful, but also exquisitely beautiful.  Two of the most wonderful, loving friends anyone could have hoped for in life, whom I have known for something like twenty-five years, and shared a great deal of time and heart with.  What I did not expect was that in the tears after they had gone, I would find wracking sobs turn to laughter and utter joyousness.  I was crying out great sobs of complete gratitude and happiness that I had met them, loved them, known them, and been known by them.  And the letting go became easier.  The memories aligned such that even the uglier ones, the things we all might once have regretted, said, done, not said, not done, all those things, they ... they just became part of the joyous whole.

It was fabulously grievous, it hurt like anything.  But it also filled me with love and happiness, and when it all calmed down enough, I felt a little bit lighter.  A little bit more cleansed.

Thank you both; you know who you are.

And thank you again, dear reader, for bearing witness once more.

I don't know that I'm going to have much left to say from now on.  Maybe. Maybe not.  Time, after all, waits for no man.  Wherever you are as you read this, whatever else is going on, please just take a single deep breath in and hold it for a moment, and as you let it out, just feel a bit loved.  And remember you can do that anytime.


  1. I think this is my favourite blog post of yours yet. Thank you.

  2. Eric, I first "met" you from the old yahoo blenderized diet list. You helped me take the plunge to give my son real food. Now I am just awestruck reading about your journey, and I want to thank you for that. I am so moved and changed by your writing. I am going to take a deep breath now... I wish you, and Meeta, peace.

    Love, Meghan (from the other side of the world in Ithaca, NY)

  3. Dear Aadhaar,

    You taught me lots of things. I hope I didn't invite myself to your cafe table too many times and piss you off. I'm a wisdom and inspiration junkie and you're a good dealer. I'm enjoying your blogs and thinking of you.


    Love from Dave Evans

  4. I feel privileged to read your words. What grace. I'm breathing deeply and thinking of you.