Saturday, February 23, 2008

The Closest Thing to Being Buried Alive

Seems like Friday nights are designated movie nights - there's neither the energy nor the time to do this on any other evening otherwise. Read somewhere (and I think its pretty through) that, while the white-collared have the luxury of turning to life's other little pleasures when they are off their work, those who engage in physical work can barely afford this seemingly "given" - comfort back in the house is often what they get, and even this is probably at a premium.

Have been putting
this off for quite some time; thankfully there wasn't any traffic holdup. The main worry stemming from watching a foreign language film, especially when one is not the least familiar with the language medium, (besides the fear that there won't be any translation/subtiles provided), will be that one cannot grasp the true essence of the film itself, no matter how good the translation will be (this iteself is hard to tell). This one, at least, I was able to match the rises and falls of the movie with the rest of the movie hall; guess that didn't make me an oddball for once.

Le Scaphandre et le Papillon. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.. This one is based on the memoir of the same name from French journalist and one-time Elle editor Jean-Dominique Bauby. If Alzhemier's is bad enough, then the
Locked-In Syndrome might just be a a hundred times worse - what good is a perfectly functioning inner self if all words and thoughts cannot be expressed as meaningful output - gestures, songs, actions, sweet-nothings, caresses, expletives - or, any perfect face if the muscles are rendered crippled and useless?

Le Scaphandre et le Papillon. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Its no wonder that the first words that came out from Bauby's blinks were "I want to die." To understand but not be understood at age 42, to be the centre of attraction of two nubile therapists and yet not be able to enjoy it, to have people bath and tend to 24-7, to be unable to voice out the right to watch the crucial soccer game at the most crucial moment, to be unable to care for 3 young kids when a father's care and concern mattered most, to be unable to make up to a sentimental ex-wife and able mom to the kids, to be unable to see to the remaining days of a 92-year-old father who has difficulty moving around, to be unable to be with one's true love till life''s sunset - it not only pains the ones dearest to the patient, but the helplessness and frustration of such painful knowledge that cannot be expressed forever (there is no cure for Locked-In Syndrome), its like a death sentence that has no execution date set, with zero chances of even a chance to appeal against the sentence.

Will I have the spirit to let what remained of me take off again, like a papillon? Will I have the sense of humour to laugh along with those who poked fun at me, being perfectly aware that they had been teasing my condition? Wil I have the courage to ask my loved ones to see me in such a state? Will I have the heart to hear my aged father's tearing voice, and subject him to the knowledge that he had probably already heard the last of his son's voice, ever, with probably minimal chances of even seeing him face-to-face? Will I even embark on the painstaking task of trying to "write" a memoir? (Though this one would be easier to answer 'cos there's probably not much to write about anyway.)

Mortality itself is painful; its close associates are not less so. Embrace life, embrace its opportunities.


Signing off.................. 孤独的夜睄。。。。。。

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