Teetering on the Edge of Happiness

Teetering on the Edge of Happiness

May all your dreams come true; maybe not?

There have been times in my life that I have come close to acquiring the jewels of the promised land, whatever that may have been at the time.  Mostly I have stepped back because I can feel the cost of the prize, to me, to my loved ones, to the quality of the life currently manifested.

Why do we dream?  Why do we aspire to have more, to show more, to be more?  We have been taught it is the purpose of life, to effect change to affect people.  Does that mean we must do and be more?  Must I be a blazing fire consuming the air or a rampaging floodwater washing away the earth?  Can I be a cozy hearth fire and a silent stream and still be of value?

The cost of success has always concerned me.  It took decades for someone to finally point out to me that to be financially successful in art, one must not only be good at creating, but also good at being a celebrity.  It is the artist that, not who, but that is marketed, the work is secondary.  I have been unwilling to be a commodity, though I have been on the track, I have always slipped off the edge to drive along a dirt road with a quiet dead end; no turning circle, just a quiet end.

When I was on dialysis waiting for a transplant, eagerly though trepidatiously waiting, I received many calls after two years on the list.  They started infrequently.  My cell phone on 24 hours a day, a call would come in, sometimes at three AM, sometimes in the middle of a swim meet, or a place with poor reception, and I would run outside to hear.  A coordinator would tell me of the imminent death of a patient, the details of their illness, their age, ultimately asking: “Do you want the kidney?”  I always said “Yes.”  The first couple of calls I was eighth in line for a kidney, then sixth, then fourth.  I was fourth for eight of the twelve times they called to possibly put me on high alert to get to the hospital.  I was admitted one Saturday and then sent home, as the kidney was a poor choice for me but critical for a patient who would die the next day, but “the option was mine.”  I turned it down for my sake and for the other patient’s sake.  I hope the other patient is still alive now too.  

After four years of waiting and two years of calls, I got one of the kidneys for whom I was fourth in line.  Two people were sick and therefore required to pass, and one just said “No”; could have knocked me over with a feather.  By the time that twelfth call came, I was  in my third year of dialysis.  It wasn’t working as well, I was sick a lot and full of cramps, some of which tore my leg muscles. I had heard the terrible stories of twelve deaths, from infants to adults.  As I faced making their demise valuable through their organ donations, I was finally ready; any earlier in the process, I might not have been.  Sometimes the only route to happiness is straight through hell, it can be very clarifying.

Mostly my life is very comfortable now, as it was before.  I used to be waiting to see if I could conquer my disease’s wide swath of destruction.  As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I have merely delayed it, but it’s a small win of endurance on my part, sitting by that cozy fire and silent stream. However, it leaves me wanting another challenge.  It never occurred to me I would live long enough to have need of one.  The grass seems to be greening on the other side of the fence across from my meadow.  I cannot tell if it is a worthless, inedible grass or rich wheat.  Is it worth the risk to find out?  My family is the only reason I pursued a transplant: I’m unsure of the benefit to others if I cross over that fence, or even if it could prove to be for my own good. 

The fire is warm and the water flows, but I despise a centrist calmness except for the quiet and anonymity. What is the dream?  As my mother once accused me - I ask “the tough questions.”  The answers?  I await a vision in a dream.