Rhythm
Rhythm
In My Bloodstream: Lisinopril, Amlodopine, Omeprazole, Tamsulosin and Keytruda - and now Yervoy and Prednisone
On The Stereo: Staying Alive: The BeeGees
If you want a terrific example of life's rhythms, watch Tony Manero (John Travolta) in the opening scene of Saturday Night Fever. Walking with two cans of paint and the BeeGees rocking in the background. The message of inner-rhythm is inescapable.
Three miles east of Wilmington, North Carolina, out from the delta of the Cape Fear River, lies Bald Head Island. Accessible only by water. We owned a house there, in 1999, and for a few years after.
Our place was spacious, with a kitchen, dining and living room, with a wood fireplace, all viewing the ocean. And, four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a master suite with attached sitting room, which we used to play cards and games. Topped off with a screened in porch, wrapping a good portion of the deck.
We were able to walk on 14 miles of uninterrupted sand beach and swim and surf in the waves. The Gulf stream roiled its way around the southern tip of Florida and hugged the shore, bringing in warmer water than one would expect, all year long. We were there for long weekends, and Kat stayed most of the summer, while I flew in and out, whenever the opportunity arose. We usually took long walks, twice a day, with our two dogs, who busied themselves chasing sea birds and jumping from the plentiful dunes. The drive from Tuscaloosa took almost 14 hours, so we had to leave very early to load up with groceries and catch the last ferry, at 4 o'clock.
Other than that, our lives were idyllic. Family and friends visited regularly. The rhythm was solid and peaceful.
The house was perched high on a sand dune and was close to the Atlantic. Kath would say, "too close".
With the windows open and the salt breeze blowing, the cadence of the waves was constant, only resting slightly at nightfall. The house had rhythm. Like a heart beating, almost imperceptibly, as the breaking waves enveloped you and saturated your ears. Time stood still.
On Stephanie's first visit, after we moved in, she said, "Dad, this will add years to your life." I had been undergoing chemotherapy in Birmingham, for my melanoma. I remember nodding yes - without reply. The love of salt water still lives in me. And I can bring the memory to life, at will. It has permanence.
My youth was blessed. With not much money, but we lived on a lake, and I had a boat. I always had a job. Jim French and I, and others, spent much of our free time water skiing. We were all pretty fair skiers, trying new ideas. I built a pair of "shoe-skis", which Jim's brother Allan painted to look like big feet. It was one step from barefoot skiing, and we could do 180° and 360° spins, just as we did with our trick skis. We never missed a chance to be on the water.
But slalom skiing was everything to me. One ski. Seventy feet of rope. Pulled at speeds of about 30mph. You lean back, putting pressure on your back foot, and pull yourself away from the boat, to one side, and then, with one arm fully extended, you cut around a real or imaginary buoy, lean to the other side, sending a massive wall of water to the side and rear of you. The moment is spectacular. And you move to a rhythm of your own making. Back and forward, pulling hard and dipping a shoulder, almost into the water, as you "fly" by the rear of the boat.
The feeling is powerful. It is a match of speed, strength and grace. And it is your own, unique, tempo.
I skied for the last time, when we were living in Tuscaloosa. Melanoma and its subsequent chemical side-effects robbed me of strength and put fear in my heart. Age, I suppose, was also a factor. Caution was new to me. And the sheer unabashed joy was gone. In the beat of a heart. That fantastic rhythm. Never to return.
At the extreme, opposite end of the spectrum would be mountains. Almost as high as the water is deep.
Mountains have a strange allure. They can be remarkably beautiful. And yet they hide danger and have a ruggedness unequalled on earth. Snow-capped mountains are heavenly. They soar. And we love them for two basic reasons - their straightforward arrogant beauty, and the challenge of skiing their slopes.
Snow skiing is so very different from water-skiing. You must deal with incline, gravity, friction, centrifugal force and hidden obstacles. The playing field is no longer level.
We skied Zermatt, Switzerland. With our AFFLINK board. At our annual meeting. And yes, this was allowed. And it was not the norm. But we did.
On our last day, when the meetings concluded, we skied with those who chose to stay an extra day or more. It was an incredibly spectacular day. The temperature was barely at freezing, there was no wind of consequence. The sun was blinding, and the conditions were simply excellent.
We had skied the morning, had a sumptuous Swiss lunch, with a white Burgundy, and decided to ski to the base, and take the train back up to the summit, for our one last run.
The afternoon shadows were quickly closing in, and we hustled down the trails, a bit faster than usual, a bit tipsy, perhaps, and laughing at our good fortune.
We were the only skiers on the train. It takes considerable time to reach 13,000 feet. The final incline caused the old train to balk and wheeze. When we arrived, the shadows had overtaken the mountain. Dapples of sunlight gave way to the darkness of the valleys. Stan and Deanna Mayfield, Kathleen and I were alone on the Matterhorn. Others were all gone. We were at the absolute end of the ski day. On top of one of the most photographed peaks in the world. The Matterhorn rising over our shoulder.
As host, and ever polite, I instructed them to go ahead. I would wait a bit and then follow, to ensure that we all made it back safely.
I watched the three, bent over, zig-zagging their way down the first mountain run, across a narrow, connecting snow bridge to another, and fade out of sight.
I stood, alone. I was awestruck. I could not believe I was here. I was a poor boy from Rutherglen, Scotland, raised in Orillia, a small town in Ontario, Canada, and was living in Tuscaloosa, Alabama - a place I would forevermore call home. I thanked God. And I unwillingly shed a tear. I did not deserve this. But here I was. I did not want to leave.
I began the descent. Not on water, as we discussed earlier, but on water's alter ego - snow. Frozen water.
Boys, and men to a certain point in their lives, do dangerous things. Not because they are brave, but because they have not been consumed by fear. Youth and stupidity are closely aligned. The line is blurred and erratic. I suppose, that if we were able to escape the pitfalls and sicknesses that lurk, ready to strike without warning, we might not ever become anxious, or trepidatious. But we do.
Most of us, sooner or later, are touched by fate. And we begin to think differently. We become concerned, not just for ourselves, but for family and friends. We recognize mortality.
I had no fear of being alone, falling, or getting lost on the descent. European mountains are not as well marked as North American ski runs. Wrong turns are easy. None of this entered my mind. There was no bravery. A massive adrenaline rush. No doubt. Lean in.
I gained speed and started a series of long arcs, across the mountain face. Entering in and out of sun and darkness. I could hear the whoosh of the snow coming off of the skis' edges. And I found the music. The percussion was with me. It became a dance. Up and down, side to side, a trip like no other I ever had. Alone on the grandest of mountains. The mountain and me.
After a non-stop ten mile run, I caught them near the run-off, leading into our hotel - The Zermatterhoff. I don't know if they saw my facial expression. I was so overwhelmed. I had found my rhythm. It was clear and I was grateful. I had freed myself and let the mountain's terrain carry me down. I had never felt better, or skied better. It was my opus.
We went to our room, showered and readied ourselves for dinner. We met our friends at the bar and my bride had her Crown on the rocks, and I, a gorgeous martini.
This was a day, I thought. Like no other. Beyond any dreams I had ever dreamt. And tonight's snow will leave a blank palette for tomorrow's artist. What a world is this.
These days are different. Life's rhythm has not been as apparent. The bold, obvious patterns have been replaced by a more subdued, subtle beat. I have to search. And be more observant. My life has lost much of the staccato. More tenderness and less bravado.
I lie at night, with Kathleen in my arms. I hold her, my hand covering her breast. She breathes, gently, her chest rising and falling, filling my palm, and I am in heaven. She has no awareness of me, other than that I am with her still. The comfort of her soft breathing contents me as does nothing else.
This is my new rhythm. It is shared now. Not just mine. And that is ok.
Thank you to the many that have written and called. So many voices from years gone by. We were not, in any way, excellent on some phone calls. On behalf of both of us, we are sorry.
We carry on, and are meandering our way through each day. Our purpose is to stay positive, active and happy. I think we are succeeding. The first Yervoy infusion has had time to integrate. Late next week, we will have a second.
We still have love to share. And it is given freely to our family and friends. We are so blessed to have you in our lives.
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