But thank God for all of the ways in which we compensate For our deficiencies. In order to play Ping-Pong—in order to make it Through this crazy life—I needed somebody to step in and take
The next shot. So let’s call this a Ping-Pong prayer. Let’s call it A Ping-Pong jubilation. I am not alone in this world. I am not Alone in this world. I am not alone in this world. I am not alone In this world. I will never be alone, my friends, and as long as I am Alive to be your teammate, neither will any of you.
103.
Clarification
LET ME REPEAT.
Yes, I have repeated myself. Yes, I have been repetitious. That’s what grief is.
Grief and repeat were sitting on the fence. Grief jumped off. Who was left?
Repeat.
Grief and repeat were sitting on the fence. Grief jumped off. Who was left?
Let me repeat the chorus.
Let me make things clear.
Five months after my mother died of cancerous tumors, I underwent surgery to remove a benign tumor from my brain.
The doctors tell me there’s a 10 to 20 percent chance I will grow other benign brain tumors. Depending on the location and size of these tumors, I could find myself in mortal danger.
Did you know that you can be killed by a benign tumor?
Imagine that news headline: Native American poet killed by oxymoron.
104.
Words
TEN MONTHS AFTER brain surgery, my neurological ICU nurse greeted me after my poetry reading in a tiny theater at Bumbershoot, a music and arts festival in Seattle.
I didn’t recognize her until my wife said, “Sherman, this is _____. She was your ICU nurse after brain surgery.”
I vaguely remembered her face. But I specifically remembered her kindness. I hugged her.
Then I stepped back. I felt so shy. She’d seen me at my most vulnerable. She’d seen me unarmored and afraid. She’d seen me in the worst pain of my life. She’d seen me weeping and tightly holding my skull because I thought it was burning and bleeding and breaking apart.
Standing in that tiny theater, I felt the urge to run away and hide. And then I realized I was still holding my nurse’s hand. And that made me even more embarrassed. I dropped her hand and took another step back.
“Oh, God,” I said. “It’s so good to see you. I’m sorry I didn’t remember your face. But I remember you. Does that make sense? I remember your spirit but not your face.”
She laughed and said, “It’s okay. You were on so many drugs.”
I laughed and said, “I loved those drugs.”
She said, “I remember how happy you were to be alive when you woke up. But you were even happier to have your stories intact. You just kept saying, ‘I still have my words, I still have my words.’”
“I don’t remember much about you,” I said. “But I remember feeling safe. I felt so safe with you.”
“That’s the best thing a patient has ever said to me.”
I hugged her again.
I remembered her scent better than I remembered her face. I closed my eyes and I remembered her standing in my dark hospital room. I remembered her asking me a series of questions to measure my cognition after brain surgery.
“You kept asking me questions,” I said as I stepped away from her again.
“Yes,” she said. “And you just kept telling stories and jokes. So many jokes. You woke up from surgery and started talking and wouldn’t stop. It was amazing. We’d never had a brain surgery patient come out so lucid. You were so funny. We couldn’t believe how funny you were.”
I remembered only bits and pieces of that time. I choked back tears.
“I must have been scared,” I said. “I am funnier when I’m scared.”
She hugged me this time.
And then I stepped away from her for the third or fourth or fifth time. Why was I so shy? I think it was because my nurse and I had shared a physical intimacy that went far beyond sex.
After brain surgery, it was her touch that brought me back into the world. Her touch gave me back my body. Her touch reintroduced me to the corporeal. Her touch began the healing process.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
She smiled.
I wanted to thank her for being maternal—for being that compassionate woman at my bedside—for bringing me the magic and medicine. But I worried about how Oedipal and way Indian that would sound.
So I repeated myself, hoping the repetition itself would somehow let her know how important she was to me.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for your kindness. Thank you for your kindness. Thank you.”
She said, “Please keep writing your stories. And I will keep reading them.”
I said, “I will remember your face now. I will be able to place you more fully in my memories now. I won’t feel so fragmented now.”
I hugged her one more time, and then I had to say good-bye. I hurried away with my wife and friends.
Ten minutes later, walking to my car, my back spasmed so hard that I almost fell to the pavement. I cried out in pain and leaned against my wife and a friend to remain standing.
“Are you okay?” my wife asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I thought you were having a seizure,” she said.
“No,” I said. “The world is too fucking big. Sometimes, I can’t even carry myself through all the love and fear.”
With my wife holding my arm, I limped toward the car. I coached myself. I said, Sherman, you can make it through this pain. You can always find your way through any pain.
And, with my wife’s help—always with my wife’s strength—I made it into the car.
I was in great pain, but I took the time to write down these very words.
This is who I am. This is who I have always been.
I am in pain.
I am always in pain.
But I always find my way to the story. And I always find my way home.
105.
Therapy
1.
Today, for you, I will remember six of the worst things that have happened to me.
Give me a high five for my honesty.
Okay, I’ve decided to go with the four worst things.
Maybe three would be better.
I know it’s only the two of us in this room. But I’m an Indian, so it always feels like my entire tribe is crushing into this—or any room—with me.
Maybe I should tell you one bad thing. And nothing too bad, either. I have to be careful. Other Indians are eavesdropping.
2.
In therapy, one hour equals fifty minutes.
An early memory: When I was two, I’d comfort myself by rubbing my face against my big sister’s panty hose. No, she wasn’t wearing the hose at the time. If that were true, it would bring up a whole different conversation. Okay, sometimes I rubbed my face against my sister’s panty hose while she was wearing them. So, yes, I have, as they say, issues.
I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it.
I have four surviving siblings. My big sister died in a house fire. I often write about her death. Sometimes, I think I should stop. But why should I stop grieving in poems if I can’t stop grieving in life?
Fire, fire, fire, fire, fire.
You know, something like 70 percent of the country is awake at 6 a.m. I get up at 6 a.m. and I’m ruined for the rest of the day. 6 a.m.! What is up with that?
3.