Chris Reeves
When I was diagnosed with metastatic colon cancer over two years
ago, I knew little about the disease, other than it was serious and
usually fatal. Since I am smart, curious, and obsessive, I
immediately commenced detailed research into cancer in general and
into my particular version in particular. This provided two
immediate benefits. First, by educating myself, I felt able to exert
some control over a situation that too often swirls unfocused into
the modern American medical machinery; I could both confront and
understand my doctors to the point of at least having an intuitive
feel for both their competence and concern. Second, the large amount
of research allowed me to put the reality of my own situation at
some distance, to view it more objectively, and to give myself time
to incorporate this trauma into my ongoing day-to-day life. One of
the by-products of this research was discovering The Wellness
Community of Delaware.
I was not the type to share feelings easily with others, nor was
I the type to feel much sympathy for others’ problems; but I was
smart enough to recognize that doing such was not only advisable,
but mandatory in order to maintain the positive attitude cancer
survivorship requires. So, I joined a support group, skeptical at
first, but willing to try learning from those who had already
experienced the same kaleidoscope of feelings I had just started to
decode. And I found myself learning; I found myself developing some
compassion for my fellow group members; and I found that sharing
such a life changing disease made the things we didn’t share
insignificant. So I listened and I learned.
The next surprise came as I matured within the group and
discovered that relating my knowledge and experience seemed to
provide benefits for others in the group, both oldtimers and
newcomers. Gradually, the overwhelming metaphysical purpose of the
support group became clear to me. While at first we learn from the
group about how to live with our disease, we soon develop a
responsibility to teach what we have learned to others. In fact, one
cannot flourish without the other. And ultimately, for those of us
who expect to succumb to our cancer, we learn from others how to
die, from those who precede us; and we carry a dramatic obligation
to then teach others how to die by the example we communicate, both
in our words and our actions. A support group is an organism that
far exceeds the individual participants who come and go, for a
variety of reasons. There is no doubt in my mind that the nature of
the group I belong to reflects the influence of people I have never
met, and that my years of participation will continue to shape the
effect of the group upon people I will never meet.
The Wellness Community provides a myriad of programs to help us
explore, not only the facets of our disease, but also those
activities that bring us pleasure, in a calm environment where one
overriding fact of our existences can be set aside. I have
participated in many of these, and I hope to participate in many
more. One in particular, however, has had an impact on me perhaps
equal to my cancer. When I was an undergraduate many, many years
ago, I had aspirations of becoming a poet. Things got in the way, so
I put that aside for thirty-five years, my muse had dried up. But
when I was diagnosed, that muse returned uninvited, and I was
compelled to start writing again. The Wellness Community started up
a poetry writing workshop that has continued now for two years. In
the course of that time, I have had my work read on the floor of the
United States Senate and published in literary magazines. A volume
of my poetry will be published this fall. Without The Wellness
Community none of this might have happened; with The Wellness
Community I have become a better person; although given where I
started from, that was not a difficult climb.
Editor's Note: After a courageous battle, Chris Reeves passed
away on August 12, 2006, surrounded by loved ones.
Amusement Park
for John Mandik, Statistician
We ride “The Bell Curve”,
ballyhooed an exclusive “Five-Year Thrill For Five”.
No steel loops or hanging corkscrews; not for youngsters,
this roller coaster is a throwback, matrices of wooden trestles
continually plumbed, tweaked, and kept accurate.
Kin to the splintered monsters that once roamed
Coney Island,
and those around the Great Lakes returned to firewood and ash,
more perfect than Fujiyama, Kilamanjaro, and Rainier,
it rises, according to (John, you know):
With symmetry of design and harmony of purpose,
one breathtaking climb to pinnacle then descent,
fashioned of beams and posts and cross-bracing members,
the whitewashed structure scales the horizon along the beach,
its latticework crusting salt from the onshore breeze.
One hundred of us gather on the platform,
beneath the tent-like canopy.
Only five survive five-years. John, you must see it in our eyes
for you circulate, touch a shoulder, squeeze a hand, and explain:
“Don’t believe the advertising, it’s all ecological fallacy.
I know how numbers lie, it’s how I make my living.”
Fares paid long in advance, we climb into the
train, ten cars of ten;
The rush is to the front, but we sit last, counting heads.
We smoothly slide away, no more jolts, for this ride is predictable.
Before we even clear the platform’s end,
we’ve lost three fares, and in six months we’re decimated.
Still we mount the Curve, our attention drifting
from the world.
The earth sheds its blemishes, and seats grow vacant.
now we’re two years into it, and I count forty less.
Six months more, we summit in the thinner, sweeter air, our train
half-full,
our train half-empty, our train too large, for we do not carry our
losses.
The Curve’s about to tip from tilt, so we must
shift our posture.
The train hangs at that zero moment: existence stammers in the
instant.
The sea below is voiceless, its detail lost in distance.
Suns and stars and moons and friends go round and round in spacey
skies.
Differentiate, differentiate, differentiate.
Anticipation of the fall draws our breaths
before the fact.
We thrust our hands above our heads.
We hoot and holler, to show we’re fearless,
but the headcount drops as we clatter down.
The train grows lighter, our complexions wither.
I no longer count. The sea approaches, and we
see swells,
then waves, then breakers, and then foam sweeping across the sand.
We sense shared fire with shore birds, dancing crabs, and biting
fleas
The bodies above wheel faster and faster, but our adrenaline is
spent.
The train slides under the canopy; five of us climb out.
Under the “EXIT” sign, we form a circle of
arm-linked shoulders.
We listen for each other’s breath, then listen to our own.
No one needs a word to say. No one lines up to ride again.
The smile we fight defies the odds, but is it framed by guilt?
So as we part, I would ask, John (if you can hear):
Is it fair to petition God to include me in the
five?
s that fair to you, the other ninety-five percent?
Is it fair to Him, for is He merely master of possibilities,
the ultimate thrower of dice? Is that how He makes His living,
His design sublime statistics, where fairness has no weight?
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