tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8217750984500164269.post5628063007294771192..comments2024-03-02T03:16:49.548-05:00Comments on Every little thing: Being MortalAlison Piepmeierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17972854288403934814noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8217750984500164269.post-65280773372793182192015-12-06T11:25:20.533-05:002015-12-06T11:25:20.533-05:00Apologies for the delay in my reply. I am — as usu...Apologies for the delay in my reply. I am — as usual — awash, overwhelmed, inundated. But I will write something!<br /><br />Regarding my recently rearranged face: thanks for asking. It's getting better. The only pain medicine I'm using is Advil, but I really only use it at night. So, not to worry! I shall recover from my latest bout of poor judgment.<br /><br />I hope your day finds you spending more quality time with good cookies and delicious coffees.Philip Nelhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14547671853776588939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8217750984500164269.post-40570601109680745772015-12-04T14:27:48.817-05:002015-12-04T14:27:48.817-05:00At this moment, I'm awake--drinking iced coffe...At this moment, I'm awake--drinking iced coffee and eating an astonishingly cookie. It's a good moment, so I'm being here with it. Yum.<br /><br />You told me about your (painful! bloody!) accident. And you warned me about how you'd look after your dramatic incident. After I checked you out online, I see that you actually look tough, in a good way, so this might be the perfect moment to demand your students turn in the best papers they can imagine. <br /><br />I hope the hospital gave you some very effective pain killer. Are you able to eat? Or at least have some iced coffee? There's also a delicious funky hot tea with syrup that I also find delicious. When you're here, I can offer lots of ways of soothing your body.<br /><br />Okay, LOVE you as a visiting blogger on Every little thing! Do it do it! How can we make this happen? Send me what you want to go up, and I'll do it. Send along visuals, too, if you want them.Alison Piepmeierhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17972854288403934814noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8217750984500164269.post-45167570552478787272015-12-03T23:12:42.620-05:002015-12-03T23:12:42.620-05:00Thanks, Alison. Very kind of you to say. Also (a...Thanks, Alison. Very kind of you to say. Also (arg!), I see a typo in my first sentence: should be "quality of life is more important than quantity," but hopefully you auto-corrected that as you read.<br /><br />I read your comments this morning, in the emergency room. As it turns out, even a few days after an ice storm, large limbs may block the trail and, when you're cycling before dawn, these limbs may surprise you, knocking you from your bike, landing you on the ground, where, stunned, the first thing you notice is the smaller branch now protruding from the side of your face.<br /><br />It was not one of my better mornings.<br /><br />But, in that context, it was especially nice — and apt — to read your kind words. So, thank you!<br /><br />Also, lest my description (or the photo I've shared via Facebook & Twitter) alarm you, please rest assured: my face will recover. I'm afraid that my chronically poor judgment may continue to inflict its predictable damage. But the face will, in time, be fine. <br /><br />You write, "As I wake more and more from this medicine." I like that image. It makes me think of you emerging from the haze of your illness, slowly, gently, but feeling almost refreshed after a Rip-van-Winkle-style nap. I realize that the reality diverges drastically, but the image offers a more hopeful metaphor.<br /><br />Oh! And kind of you to invite me to be a visiting blogger. Sure! Or could cross-post something (on my blog and on yours). As you awaken, just let me know what you have in mind.Philip Nelhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14547671853776588939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8217750984500164269.post-85068392265891186622015-12-03T10:47:00.573-05:002015-12-03T10:47:00.573-05:00I need to see your syllabuses one of these days. ...I need to see your syllabuses one of these days. And I went online and bought a Rita Charon book. Thank you!Alison Piepmeierhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17972854288403934814noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8217750984500164269.post-26761996902229068262015-12-03T10:45:42.991-05:002015-12-03T10:45:42.991-05:00Thank you for sharing this. It's powerful to ...Thank you for sharing this. It's powerful to read. I'm just today emerging from a chemo day, so I'll be brief: as we age, we start being aware of death. Every now and then. I do have friends who speak to our happy years in our 90s, and that's the space where I step back. I'm not in that space.<br /><br />I LOVE your quotes from Hamilton: "Look around, look around. How lucky we are to be alive right now." I also am grateful you mentioned the Pullman books, which I haven't read for ages. They sound perfect.<br /><br />Thank you for writing this. As I wake more and more from this medicine, I'll revisit. You could be a visiting blogger.Alison Piepmeierhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17972854288403934814noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8217750984500164269.post-14383712278763741322015-12-03T01:00:20.521-05:002015-12-03T01:00:20.521-05:00What I take away from Gawande's book is that q...What I take away from Gawande's book is that quality of life is more important than quality, and that determining quality of life varies widely — which is why it's important to have these conversations with loved ones. One person says he could live being paralyzed from the neck down as long as he could eat chocolate ice cream and watch TV. Another person — Gawande's father, as I recall — says that he'd rather die than be paralyzed from the neck down.<br /><br />On a personal level, I think about the relative whose condition inspired me to read the book — this isn't something I'm blogging about & so I cannot elaborate further. But I also, to a lesser extent, think about myself because, well, I'm ever conscious of my own mortality. <i>How much time do I have?</i><br /><br />I realize that question has far greater urgency for you, and feel slightly abashed at describing myself as ever conscious of my mortality (because I know that I am <i>not</i> conscious of mine in the same way that you're conscious of yours). But, well, the older we get, the more dead people we know — and the closer we come to our own deaths. And so... mortality becomes more visible. I think of the way that Philip Pullman personifies death in the third book of <i>His Dark Materials</i> — that our death is always with us, but usually hides just out of sight, so as not to trouble us. And I think of talking with the relative & the fact that she seems at peace with her impending demise. I wonder if, when my time comes, I will find that peace.<br /><br />I suspect that, were I facing this prospect in what should be the middle of my life — as you are — I would not be at peace. Or I don't think I would. There's a line in <i>Hamilton</i>, which I am currently obsessed with (I've not seen it, but am listening to the original cast album daily): "Why do you write like you're running out of time?" And I do write like I'm running out of time. But also the line "Look around, look around. How lucky we are to be alive right now." That, too. A sense of urgency and haste bumping up against the need to slow down and look around.<br /><br />I think these thoughts are more on my mortality, than on <i>Being Mortal</i>. And so,... I've drifted a bit off topic. Perhaps I should conclude.Philip Nelhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14547671853776588939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8217750984500164269.post-90729514092399552412015-12-02T12:19:52.302-05:002015-12-02T12:19:52.302-05:00I've read and taught Gawande a lot for Literat...I've read and taught Gawande a lot for Literature and Medicine as well as Illness Narrative classes; because he's a surgeon, he's more respected by doctors than an internist (and woman) like, say, Rita Charon, who is the person to read when it comes to constructing narratives of illness. I haven't read this book yet, but from doing service learning with hospice patients, I've grown to see the beauty, the spirituality, of experiences like your Nana's. The metaphor of "battle" is, I agree, so violent, and it obstructs the beauty of smelling, tasting, breathing (beautifully put). We are all mortal, and this is what I wish for myself and for you (but in the far, far future). Kathleen Beres Rogershttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17407219880959874467noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8217750984500164269.post-10031627103598825902015-12-02T06:03:22.280-05:002015-12-02T06:03:22.280-05:00Thanks, Phil. I'd love to read more of your t...Thanks, Phil. I'd love to read more of your thoughts on Being Mortal. You're right that following the individuals' experiences is meaningful, especially as we read his story of his father's death. <br /><br />Send your thoughts, your quotes, along. This is true for you, too, Elizabeth.Alison Piepmeierhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17972854288403934814noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8217750984500164269.post-88358425329436092622015-12-02T05:59:34.849-05:002015-12-02T05:59:34.849-05:00Thank you for this description--weird and perfect ...Thank you for this description--weird and perfect gentleness. I hope I can do this.Alison Piepmeierhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17972854288403934814noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8217750984500164269.post-15964739235866334432015-12-02T00:01:37.315-05:002015-12-02T00:01:37.315-05:00For different reasons, I've just read Gawande&...For different reasons, I've just read Gawande's <i>Being Mortal</i>, too. It's not exactly a cheery read, but I like his emphasis on quality of life. And, like you, I spent a lot of time thinking about his craft. (I liked all of the stories he was telling, and I thought using his father's own end-of-life process as a kind of narrative thru-line worked really well.) My copy also has lots of post-it notes, marking passages: "The battle of being mortal is the battle to maintain the integrity of one's life — to avoid becoming so diminished or dissipated or subjugated that who you are becomes disconnected from who you were or where you want to be" (141).<br /><br />Of course, I have the luxury of reading the book at (what I imagine is) a greater distance from my own mortality than you do. And I can see — or, at least I imagine that I can see — how reading it while struggling with a brain tumor would be much scarier. Thank you for sharing your response here. It is, as your writing always is, thoughtful & perceptive.Philip Nelhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14547671853776588939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8217750984500164269.post-87700120187183649802015-12-01T23:41:07.235-05:002015-12-01T23:41:07.235-05:00There's so much to mull over and muse here -- ...There's so much to mull over and muse here -- both your words, Alison, and Guwande's. I've read him regularly in The New Yorker, and he seems a beautiful man, capable of great poetry. He can be a mansplainer, too, but then he's a surgeon. Your words have always cut to the bone with a weird and perfect gentleness. Does that make sense? Elizabethhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03313726816776097840noreply@blogger.com