June 27, 2004
The Chico Code
Thanks to Auntie Kit the notes I took during my last visit to Chico have been typed. So, before sharing them with you, I want to thank her. Challenge number one was reading my printing. Challenge number two was trying to extract some semblance of meaning. Well, Kit up to it and, “She done real good!”
The trip in question was between the one originally planned for the Christmas 2003 holiday, but put off until the days around New Year’s Eve. In addition to what you see here, there are other “Chico notes” which are still handwritten the small notebook I carry around most of the time. I’ll send those along at another time. In the meantime, here is what I saw and felt and thought about….
THE CHICO CODE
Caveat – As I begin this most different journey, let me say right from the jump that I do have an idea about the ground I plan to cover. What I don’t know is how well that coverage will be. The journey may be succinct and east to follow…or it may come across in a less understandable manner. However, it may turn out my one wish is that something of importance, something of values is conveyed to whomever the readers might be.
Title - For the East Coast trip I took the following to read: 1) Forward – Day by Day, 2) The Lost Books of the Bible, 3) Church Folk, a novel and 4: the long time NY Times bestseller #1, The Da Vinci Code. I spent a fair amount of reading time – on the NY ground and in the air – with each of these readings. I first thought of labeling what follows “The Chico Chapters”. On reflection I decided that I don’t intend to write chapters. But while sitting in both Hartford’s Bradley Field airport and later Washington’s Dallas airport, the inclusion in the word “code” made more sense. This is no book review but The Da Vinci Code tracks less than obvious clues [I have only read 125 pages, so at this point I have no idea which the books plot will lead.] Each clue points to something beyond itself, something of seemingly more significance, more weight, perhaps a bigger even ultimate truth. But even if that’s not what’s going on in the book, event if the author, has/had something else in mind the notion of linking Chico and a code is unquestionably apt for me. The application here is simple: In looking at Chico, there is a mental and spiritual journey beyond him…most assuredly seeing him but not stopping there. More on this later.
Background – Let’s say it was about a month ago – it occurred to me that I wanted to visit Chico (at the Masonic Home, of course) before the year’s end. When I had seen him last, he looked thin and was slow in responding to questions or just as slow when making a statement. His sense of humor was there, however. It did surprise me to learn how dependent he had become on both an aluminum walker and – hard as it was to accept – a wheel chair! No…not Chico…
Plan A was to go for Christmas. Abenaa suggested that she come along. But as I often do I procrastinated in firming up a date – even though Debbie had downloaded a bunch of times, airlines and prices. Abenaa later told me she had suggested coming along as an incentive for me. Well, Christmas was celebrated in Los Angeles with a single ticket eventually purchased for the Sunday after Christmas. Travel Agent Debbie made the auto and airlines arrangements and I called the New Haven Hotel and “hooked up” Monday and Tuesday evening at the $90 per night AARP rate. I had everything pretty much worked out until the Sunday morning cal from Jennifer, the Masonic Home nurse assigned to Chico’s floor. He had recently been moved from the 6th to the 3rd floor because of his refusal to leave his room…for anything. The new arrangement (i.e., changed rooms) was apparently working.
Jennifer said there was a “hardness” in Chico’s abdomen and the doctor had decided he should be hospitalized. At the time I simply assumed that he was taken to the hospital on the Masonic Home grounds. Subsequent calls and conversations revealed that Chico was in the ER at the Mid State Medical Center in Meriden. The ER? Good grief. That struck me as “somewhat serious” but nothing much more than that. I told the ER nurse that I’d be landing in Hartford the following (Monday) morning and would come straight to the hospital. Chico struck me as an almost ghostly sight. Although he hadn’t lost any of his skin coloring he had lost a considerable amount of weight. His eyes were glazed over and most of what he said was in a very slow mummer. I asked him if he knew my name. After a long delay he said the nickname he had given me ages ago. Chico said “Cuthbert Jones”. When I asked him if he knew where I lived he simply looked at me without responding. I sensed that he heard me but couldn’t be sure. Later that day (after getting checked in at the hotel) I returned with Aunt Gloria Williams. On seeing Chico, she simply remarked about how much weight he had lost since she last saw him – several weeks earlier. While she kept Chico company, I tracked down Dr. Hues, chief surgeon. He’s the one who was scheduled to perform the operation both he an his colleague, Dr. Ali, had agreed Chico needed. Here’s what he shared about Chico’s condition:
First and most serious, a large tumor “on” his intestine. I later learned that the tumor not only wrapped around his large intestine but had squeezed the latter enough to actually penetrate Chico’s intestinal wall – thus causing internal bleeding. It had also attached itself to a portion of the small intestine. All affected parts were subsequently removed. Dr Huse had speculated that based on the pre-surgery x-rays enough colon would have to be removed to necessitate an attached external bag for waste collection. That concerned Dr. Huse because he didn’t think Chico would tolerate the bag and to his detriment, would regularly “rip it out”. As it turned out it was possible to do a re-section: joining the remaining intestine after removing the affected area. Secondly, Chico’s gall bladder was filled with stones. Third, he was anemic. Forth, part of his intestine had dropped into his scrotum. So, now there was a hernia needing repair.
Finally, the blood clots in Chico’s swollen left leg had to be kept from drifting up to his lungs. The insertion of umbrella like filter in Chico’s vena cava would be necessary. The added complication was Chico’s advanced age (91) and the big question of his getting through such extensive surgery. That proved to be the major pivotal point for me. From that moment until late Wednesday afternoon/early evening I was “wasted”. I went into a wide awake stupor…characterized by screaming, shouting (if there’s a difference), crying (oh, such crying!) more praying on my knees in my hotel room, poundings on the bed as though it represented everything I had every imagined needed to be pounded. Then I’d get quiet and start over again. The screaming, by the way, took place in the rental car and the shower. I was readily reminded of the pain and outburst I experienced after Robert’s death. Tuesday night’s horror was interrupted by a jaunt to JK’s, a juke joint on the corner of College and George Streets, 2 minute walk from the hotel. I hadn’t eaten and felt a sandwich and a beer would make what I knew would be a bad evening somewhat more bearable. Getting Chico out of my mind – debilitated or dead (!) was impossible. The big fat Bayou Burger proved to be too spicy to enjoy and then there were the 6 competing TV sets. Football, hockey, basketball and smack down. The latter was prophetic because when I left I felt smacked down. When I crossed the street heading back to the hotel (maybe around 11 p.m.) I clearly thought, “I hate New Haven. I’ll never come back!” Crazy and unanticipated notion though it was, I meant it at the time! In between a seemingly endless stream of tears I surfed the countless TV channels not having any idea what, if anything, I was looking for. Oddly, I was neither angry nor, to be sure, depressed in the traditional way depression is defined – or at least the way I understand it. I felt, rather a tremendous sense/feeling of absolute love not only for who Chico is but for what his life meant to me. Unfettered selfishness on part, perhaps so; but (again) not from anticipating his “passing” but the prospect of his “passing” during an operation. Sure, that’s weird. The Obstacle Jumper – To me it was inconceivable that an operation would be Chico’s last earthly experience. Yes, inconceivable. To others, this may sound naïve. After all, one might correctly observe, “He’s 91 years old.” And whatever else 91 years is, 91 is not young. Yet I couldn’t (absolutely couldn’t) “place” Chico’s earthly exit as an outcome of the surgery. Dr. Huse had openly and candidly given me as many details of the anticipated procedure as he could – and where I had questions, he provided answers. Even when getting agreement from Ray and Kit about moving ahead, I remained thoroughly uncomfortable with the prospect. Someone else might proffer an explanation for my mindset and I’d not argue with their view. Maybe, just maybe it was because “defeat” and “failure” were not concepts I had – over these many years – come to associate with Chico. I can recall some job setbacks for him; but he never blamed others; he never complained about it or saw himself as “victim”. Indeed Chico had been significantly inconvenienced, yet never “whipped”. Never. True undergoing major surgery was infinitely more than a mere inconvenience. The removal of a tumor which had affixed itself to a portion of his large and small intestines; the extraction of a stone-logged gall bladder; a (who-knows-how-long-neglected) hernia, anemia and a clear case of an elderly man who, for whatever reason(s), had missed far too many meals: Chico was clearly underweight. He was a mess. Surgically, he was most unready. Dr. Huse was confident about the expertise of his surgical team; but he was far less certain about how well Chico’s body would respond to the trauma of the surgical invasion. Huse didn’t know what might happen. I knew what couldn’t happen! Quite a difference. At one clearly wild point that may have been Tuesday evening or early Wednesday morning I went to my knees (again) and raised both arms in a gesture clearly designed to give Chico’s body to God. I openly and tearfully asked (make that “begged”) God to take his body. To take it and do whatever needed to be done to get Chico through the surgery. I was far from giving up, fully distraught though I was. My focus was on the healing (or the fortification) of the body and not on the release of the soul. There was and remains the inevitable reality of Chico’s passing. Countless millions have and will die at an earlier age than his now feeble 91 years. Some on the operating table, some even before they get to a hospital. Those and other hard-fast scenarios notwithstanding, Chico just was not supposed to “pass” on this occasion. There was no “place” in my psyche [wherever that might be located] for that! Not so pure and not so simple. After my shameless “performance” I was o.k. It was not so much that I had dumped an excessive burden; rather that I had made a reasonable request. Even as I write this I am aware of how peculiar it sounds. Put in another way, I was not asking God to perform a miracle. Getting Chico through the surgery would not be a miracle. For God, getting Chico through would have been another “routine interaction with humankind” or, as the kids say, “Easy peezy, one, two, threezy”. How God does what God does and why God does what God does were not concerns of mine. I wasn’t trying to probe or understand. I simply (ha!) wanted something of extreme importance (an extreme understatement) to happen: Get Chico Through!
Welcome Wednesday – My conversation with Dr. Huse was intentionally brief. Just as Dr. Ali, Huse’s surgical partner, had calmly told me the night before when I trekked to Meriden to sign the consent papers, Chico was an elderly patient. The conversation had the tone of a cautious preparation for the worse. Huse said the procedure would begin around 11 a.m. but he had no idea how long it would take. That was all there was to that. So…I found every kind of distraction to pass the time: reading and (primarily) walking. Television turned out to be more of a visual assault than a worthy addition to my clock-ticking time. Here’s another piece of this saga: On each occasion when I returned to the room and found the telephone light off, I was comforted that the operation was still underway. There was only one reason for that: Chico was holding up under whatever he was going through. An early call would have signaled just the opposite. My underlying conviction and comfort were being confirmed by the minute: Chico was a strong dude! It was the foundation for my original thought – i.e., that he was “able” to withstand the surgery. And here was real time evidence. The surgeons and others were busy and Chico wasn’t up and running, to be sure; but Chico was alive! My last return to the room was around 5 p.m. Still no light. I nervously – though without fright – called the hospital. I learned that Chico had undergone a 5 ½ hour operation. (Dr. Huse noted that he had called sometime earlier but I never got the message from the hotel desk). He added that he wished some of his surgical residents had been there to witness the procedure. A portion of Chico’s large and small intestine had been removed but the dreaded colostomy bag was not needed. The intestinal track had been cut to remove the tumor and then re-attached. Whew. Because the hospital’s ICU was full, Chico had been taken to the Recovery Room. A likely place for Chico. I don’t remember putting the phone back on its cradle, but I do remember the shout and tears of downtown New Haven joy that took up the next unmeasured stretch of time. “Thank you, God” took first place closely followed in terms of redundancy by, “Thank you, Jesus”. Over and over and over countless times. My face was drenched and my sheer joy was both off the hook and off the chain. I was one extremely happy dude. Some time around 7 p.m. I headed back to the hospital. The best single word to describe the sight of Chico is, “tubular” He looked like a fire hydrant in reverse with mini hoses in here and out there. The largest, most complicated contraption was the ventilator. I have never seen one before although I had often heard about people being “on” one. In my mind, the word drummed up the distinct sight of an iron lung! So much for my knowledge of medical technology. Chico’s eyes were glassy and open. He was completely out of it. And although I kissed his brow and said something to him, there was no response of any kind. The 2 nurses assigned to him were cooperative and attentive. In traditional parlance, Chico was not a pretty sight. But because after that ordeal he was alive…Chico was nothing less than beautiful. On returning to New Haven I stopped and picked up a bottle of champagne. Later I bought a soul food dinner: chicken, black eye peas, macaroni and cheese, corn bread and some pineapple-coconut cake. I had been invited (by Gloria Williams) to a 9 p.m. New Year’s Eve service at St. Luke’s, but chose not to go. I wanted to celebrate New Year’s Eve by myself. The streets downtown were empty and the hotel was surprisingly quiet. None of the traditional Dec. 31st hoopla meant anything to me. Chico was alive. Everything, yes everything else was…well… of less importance. Tears came again but they were coupled with muted laughter and endless smiles. Chico was far from well but God (I say again, God) had seen fit to get him through the operation. I was extremely happy and indescribably grateful. At midnight I was on my knees. The Times Square ball had descended without incident and I was feeling great. The inanity of television programming meant nothing. In fact, I even found myself enjoying some of what I saw. The real celebration, the real high point had come hours earlier. Everything subsequent to that was anti-climactic. And that was O.K. God had been faithful and all…all was right with the world.
The Chico Code
As I always do when traveling, I took books with me on the trip. One of them was the best selling “Da Vinci Code”. Mystery, intrigue, follow the clues wherever they lead. During one of my few quiet, more reflective moments, I had the notion that Chico’s life is very much like a code. Perhaps even a metaphor. At the surface, when looking at the most obvious, the readily accessible, his life “message” is rather clear. An elderly man, long married, sociable, liked, loved and respected. Organizationally active, church centered and concomitantly God-fearing. Any number of people (friend and relatives alike) could add to the list; and this, in itself, moves us closer to grasping the Chico Code.
But, here’s the kicker: Chico is more (much more) than the sum of his aging parts. One might well wonder, what else is there? Or what more could there possibly be? In the book noted above, the handful of seekers of the Holy Grail struggled with the meaning of the disparate artifacts in their hand, and yet there was a strong sense that there was more, much more than that which was readily accessible.
So it is with Chico. It really is not about who Chico is all by himself. The Code is what Chico is to others. It becomes a matter of looking at and beyond Chico, at and through him to the many lives he has touched. Not only countless people, but the countless ways in which they (we!) have been touched and influenced. Without even a hint of bragging – a quality which is not alien to him – Chico references arcane literature. In his presence, during the characteristic one-way conversations, one merely listens. Away from him one tracks down the literature and…in many instances, one reads it. At that point, by that time, Chico has moved on to something entirely different though no less arcane. Or he might talk about a country in another part of the world with an unsettling degree of familiarity…at least for the rest of us. He may not have met the rich and famous; but he knows about their lives and exploits as though at an earlier time he and they had sipped wine or smoked cigars together.
A local (Los Angeles) station promises, “You give us 22 minutes, we’ll give you the world.” That could just as well have been the Chico mantra. Religion, science, history, philosophy. Just about everything except sports! He had a brief involvement with soccer as a young man; but there was no lasting impression, no deep (or shallow) seated impression to hold. While that impact may have affected his friends of earlier years, Chico was probably feasting his eyes on the pages of the Harvard Classics, the Rhubiyat or maybe the Gitas. No? Then maybe the works of Paul Lawrence Dunbar, WEB Dubois or (switch) Henry James. No? Then it was the wispy lyrics offered by Billie Holiday, the harsher intonations of Dinah Washington or (backing the clock) Ma Rainey or Bessie smith. My efforts to construct an even partial list will, of necessity, fail because…Chico’s life is not a list. Chico’s life is a coded experiment… All of which makes him, finally, The Great Man.
The Great Man – Because of our traditional and unchallenged way of looking at life and the definitions which are given to us, we accept much that really should be questioned. So, at first (and fully accepted) blush when we think of a great person we think of someone who, by definition, did something great. That person did something of historical significance. Through the sheer strength of their character or personality entire countries or continents underwent major change. They singularly commanded nations, armies, religions, tribes or cultures. They made a mark on history and that mark (or those marks) are even now remembered, recognized and most certainly celebrated. Hannibal, Katherine the Great, Alexander the Great, Socrates, Nelson Mandela, Fidel Castro. But again, in the traditional sense, were we to add the name Chico, the world would laugh and, after settling down, would inquire: “What, pray tell makes him great?” Removing him from the traditional list and near greats, the criteria would be (and is) decidedly different: Chico’s greatness has been earned through a different routine. It came and comes through a life of joy, celebration, intellect, curiosity, devotion, belief, faith (they are different) dedication, gentleman-ness, respect and love. He was and is no miracle. He never had any special “magic” that guaranteed that others would see that which makes him special, that which sets him apart. In fact, he’d be the first to suggest that all of this represents an exaggeration on one end, and a senseless rant on the other. All of which would only force the inclusion of another quality: humility. Now hat does seem like a stretch; but it is true all the same. At the bottom of all the huff, the puff and the fluff, Chico is a humble man. He knows that what he has is that which h was given; and that’s a good lesson for all of us. #
Sunday, June 27th, 2004
Posted by mbowen at 10:11 AM | Comments (0)
June 24, 2004
A Passion for Gibson’s “Passion”
What I have liked about the Mel Gibson-Danny Glover cinematic duo (“the Lethal Weapon” series) was how dufus they were…both the movies themselves and the primary characters. “Dufus” not meaning stupid, but dufus as in marginally competent, borderline misfits, meandering through their jobs and their lives on a chicken wing and a crossed-finger prayer. As in “to be taken anything but serious!” Just plain entertainment. When I watched their antics on screen I was never enlightened, but always entertained. But I have come to learn that you can’t judge an actor by what he/she does on screen. Huh? I now find that one can make a more accurate assessment from what that same person causes to happen on screen…even when she/he isn’t there. So, Mel took on the story of Christ’s crucifixion. Whew, did he ever take it on!
My appreciation for the film “comes from” a rather strange “place” in my viewing retinue. Years ago I saw the film, “Deliverance” with Burt Reynolds, et alia. There was one scene in which a dude was pierced by an arrow. That scene was e x t e n d e d – or at least I thought so – for quite some time. It made the effect of the injury really strike home. It was lingered, prolonged and anything but the typical “slam bam it’s over ma’am” style of handling on screen violence. And so in Gibson’s depiction we have the courtyard flogging, the wedging of the crown of (what looked like metallic) thorns, the agonizing trek to Golgotha and, finally, the crucifixion itself.
Except for an isolated hint of something to the contrary, the Roman soldiers in the movie are without any socially redeeming qualities. Maybe, in the final analysis, this is true for all soldiers. Our newspaper stories and television heroics notwithstanding, they (soldiers) are hired and trained to kill or otherwise inflict bodily harm on “the enemy.” Period. So their endless fury and banter directed toward Jesus are fitting in the context of what they were instructed to do. So, from the time he is captured, subsequent to the infamous betrayal by Judas, there is no let up from his pain and the suffering. In another writing I explore the “theological implications” of the story; but for now I’ll stick to what’s on screen and not my own beliefs. (By the way, I know nothing about Gibson’s religious convictions.)
I am far from convinced that biblical stories turned into screen representations are easy. When directors take on the big stuff, like the holding back of the Red Sea, special effects triumph over spiritual awe or uplift. All in all, Hollywood cannot help being what it is. Yet there are times (and this, I think, is one of them) when an artist moves beyond the tradition and captures hearts, minds and, yes, souls of the theatre audience. My own “tearing up” at various times is no sure indicator. Heck, I literally boo hooed years ago when I saw the plight of poor little Bambi!! But I am likewise aware when something below or beyond the realm of human tears is taking place. Something more profound and more, as time will bear out, lasting. A psychic or spiritual rumbling, if you will.
As might well be expected, this (also and likewise) will pass away. The world of cinematic impressions is much too dynamic for anything – even significant imagery and dialogue – to last. We grab and, for a time, hold on to displays which mean something to us personally and then we consciously wait or become unexpectedly “exposed” to something else, the newest, the latest. And there is nothing intuitively wrong with that. Yet we should not get so stuck in the now that at same future point we cannot see and accept the life and wisdom of Jesus as represented possibly in feminine form and/or with unmistakably blackdark/brown/Semitic skin. Hmmm. How much passion does that call for?
Posted by mbowen at 05:45 PM | Comments (0)
June 07, 2004
Nine Eleven Mishaps
After Sept. 11th, one company invited the remaining members of other
companies who had been decimated by the attack on the Twin Towers to share their available office space.
At a morning meeting, the head of security told stories of why these people were alive...... and all the stories were just: The 'L I T T L E' things
As you might know, the head of the company got in late that day because his son started kindergarten.
Another fellow was alive because it was his turn to bring donuts.
One woman was late because her alarm clock didn't go off in time.
One was late because of being stuck on the NJ Turnpike because of an auto accident.
One of them missed his bus.
One spilled food on her clothes and had to take time to change.
One's car wouldn't start.
One went back to answer the telephone.
One had a child that dawdled and didn't get ready as soon as he should
have.
One couldn't get a taxi.
The one that struck me was the man who put on a new pair of shoes that morning, took the various means to get to work but before he got there, he developed a blister on his foot. He stopped at a drugstore to buy a Band-Aid. That is why he is alive today.
Now when I am stuck in traffic, miss an elevator, turn back to answer a ringing telephone ... all the little things that annoy me. I think to myself, this is exactly where God wants me to be at this very moment.
Next time your morning seems to be going wrong, the children are slow getting dressed, you can't seem to find the car keys, you hit every traffic light, don't get mad or frustrated; God is at work watching over you.
May God continue to bless you with all those annoying little things and may you remember their possible purpose.
Pass this on to someone else, if you'd like. There is NO LUCK attached. If you delete this, it's okay! God's Love Is Not Dependent On E-Mail.
Posted by mbowen at 10:33 AM | Comments (0)