I asked him what he was reading. He showed me the cover: Moonwalking with Einstein. “It’s supposed to help you remember better,” he said.
I nodded as if I understood, but I didn’t, not really. Remember what? I wondered. Moments in his baby’s life? Passages of poetry? Facts, numbers, figures that would help him make more money? Or maybe even nights like this?
I left him to his book and his cigar and said good night.
As I walked away, I pulled a pencil from my pocket and made some notes for my journal.
Good Fella
NOTES FROM A JOURNAL
7-11-15:
Woke at 2:30 A.M. to O’s restlessness in bed and whispered, groggily, “You okay? What’s going on?”
“Hot! So hot!”
His skin was indeed hot to the touch and damp, even though the room was cool.
I pulled back all of the bedclothes, helped O remove his pajama trousers and T-shirt, went to the bathroom and got a cold, wet washcloth, put the cloth to his brow, then used it to cool and wash his naked body. I put a dry bath towel on the bed, changed his pillowcases, got a glass of water. Then I split a Xanax in two, and gave him half.
“Here,” I said, “put this under your tongue.” I didn’t ask, I told him. He did so, and I gave him some water to wash it down. We got back into bed, cuddled.
“Is this what you did with Steve,” he asked, “when he had night sweats?”
“Yes,” I whispered, “yes.”
This morning: A bowl of blueberries for breakfast. “Each one gives a quantum of pleasure,” O says with delight, then reconsiders, “if pleasure can be quantified.”
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7-13-15:
Very, very tired, I did the dinner dishes quickly, gathered my things, and earlier than usual, told Oliver I was heading to bed and said good night. He agreed, he was exhausted, and we kissed. But then as I headed for the bedroom, O called to me from his desk, “Do you know why I love to read Nature and Science every week?”
I turned. “No,” I shook my head. I was almost confused; this seemed such a non sequitur.
“Surprise—I always read something that surprises me,” he said.
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7-15-15:
O no longer wants any visitors to the apartment unless he expressly invites them: “I don’t have time to be bored!”
When he is not resting, he is working on new pieces nonstop.
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NOTES ON A PAD:
7/17, THURSDAY: LaGuardia to Durham, depart @ 2:29 P.M.; arrive @ 4:20 P.M.
7/19, SATURDAY: Durham to LaGuardia, depart @ 11:05 A.M.; arrive 12:39 P.M.
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7-18-15:
Visiting the Lemur Research Center at Duke University this afternoon.
We slept okay, though O woke at 3 A.M. with terrible cramps in his calves and feet, his feet fixed into a painful dorsal flexion, so hard and rigid it took half an hour to massage them smooth. Is this from dehydration? His urine, dark again.
Evening:
“I think that is the most wonderful sight I have ever seen,” O said quietly as we drove away from the Lemur Center. “It is the vitality of the lemurs that is so beautiful … and the dedication of those who care for them.”
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7-25-15:
In the country: O is finishing one essay, working on two others—at least two others. “How’s the writing going?” I ask, waking from a nap.
He smiles mischievously. “I meant to stop, but I couldn’t.” And he goes back to it. I watch. He doesn’t have a fancy desk here; it’s just a folding table. All he needs is a pad and his fountain pen and a comfortable chair. Completely immersed, he whispers to himself as he writes—consciousness half a step ahead of the nib of his pen.
Later, we go for a swim. The water in the pool is a bright emerald green, caused by an excess of copper and iron in the well.
“You are swimming in the elements,” I tell O, “swimming in a pool of copper.”
“Lovely,” he murmurs, doing his backstroke.
Studying Bach, August 2015
8-1-15:
He plays Beethoven—he never used to—long, haunting pieces, complex pieces—whereas he used to only play Bach preludes, and in stops and starts.
He reaches for my hand when we walk, not just to steady himself but to hold my hand.
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8-4-15:
Back from the hospital:
The surgeon implanted a catheter in his abdomen to help drain off the fluid accumulating from the tumors: O, in pain, uncomfortable, terribly nauseated. Doctors say he must eat and drink to keep his strength up. The only thing he can think of that he’d like to eat is gefilte fish.
We order from Russ & Daughters, and decide to try others for comparison.
I take the subway to Murray’s Sturgeon Shop on the Upper West Side. It could be delivered but I am frankly relieved to get out of the apartment, though it’s a grim, rainy, humid August day.
A woman waiting in line overhears me say that I am picking up an order for Oliver Sacks.
“The Oliver Sacks?” she can’t help asking.
I nod.
“He’s a very great man. I’m so sorry that he’s ill.”