Defending My Life

I had seen Defending Your Life before, at the urging of a (now ex-)girlfriend, but viewed it mostly as another whimsical, though disposable, Albert Brooks movie. I just finished watching it again, and saw it through the prism of the stem cell procedure, and its long hospitalization, I recently completed, and now have a new appreciation for it.

In the movie, which came out in 1991, Albert Brooks's character gets hit by a bus and dies. He then finds himself in a pre-Judgment, Limbo-esque resort town that looks weirdly like a generic vacation spot. It's not really a vacation spot, thouigh, because he's only there for the duration of a trial that examines his life in order to determine if he's ready to move on or go back to Earth and try again. Apparently this is his ninth such "trial."

"Fear" comes up repeatedly as the main thing that holds most people back from moving forward. In this context, considering the continuous batterings of the stem cell trial, I think--nay, I know--that I would have no problem moving forward through the trial. The one in the afterlife, I mean.

I've mentioned this already, but the incident where I was told about the possible side effects of chemotherapy should vanquish any criticisms of fear that the prosecutor would lob at me. Dr. Burt sat across me while I was on an examination table and went through all of the side effects I could expect from the chemo--like baldness, sterility, and diarrhea. Blah blah blah. One possibility, though, should have rattled me. Which one? Death.

It wasn't probable, but it was possible. I shrugged it off immediately like a flake of debris that had fallen onto my shoulder. Not to toot my own horn, but this prospect really did not bother me. Fuck it--I'll toot my own horn anyway, because death honestly does not scare me at all. I would take a polygraph to confirm this, but I'm lazy, so you'll have to take my word. This may seem morbid, but I can think of nothing more peaceful. Since I don't believe in God, I also don't believe in a heaven or hell. "Give me a break" is my terse rejoinder to any talk of that. The entire concept of an afterlife seems primitive to me, a way for those who fear death to deal with mortality. I'd rather, as a pragmatic adult, face the facts. Yes, facts.

My regiment of chemotherapy was extremely aggressive, so I'm told. I had five infusions of cytoxan in as many days. I still have my hair--sort of. One funny thing was when I finally got released and my mother drove me away from the hospital. On the way, I would pinch my face around my beard, and remove my fingers to reveal a few strands of hair. It was admittedly disgusting, but comical in the ease and simplicity of the gesture. At least I didn't have to shave.

This reminded me yet again that I had been through quite an ordeal. Whatever. No Pain No Gain, like the refrigerator magnet maxim says. I don't think, through everthing, that I ever felt a twinge of fear. Really. This may sound like so much machismo, but it's the truth. I am not afraid of death, or anything, honestly.

Except maybe having to attend a high school reunion. Luckily, I have a choice with regard to that, and I will not go. Sorry, but I refuse to reminisce. I'd rather forget that whole ordeal. If I want to talk to you, I'll do so without the context of an organized reunion. If not, which is much more likely, I wish you well.

No hostility or acrimony is in this sentiment. Just indifference, which is my overriding modus operandi.

R