We know who we are. I see the
thin but still handsome guy across from me at the community
table in the veggie bistro, watch him pull a plastic bottle
out of his knapsack, pour a dark liquid into a cup; watch him
sip once, wince, then chug the rest quickly. So I get the
whole picture: the visits to the Chinese herbalist, the tiny
sharp needles in the lung, liver and spleen meridians, the
trip home with a plastic bag full of black bark, fungus, dead
flowers and dry leaves, the pot on the stove that boils and
boils, until the house fills with the evil stink of
astragalus, isatis, licorice and honeysuckle, the mushroom tea
that sits in the fridge between the mustard and the
acidophilus, the dresser drawers full of quercetin, curcumin,
N-acetyl-L-cysteine, and the hard necessity of knowing what
these things are. The little bruise, the slight temperature,
the nightly bitter melon enema, the twice-weekly inhalations of
garlic mist through a gas mask, the colonoscopy, the tissue
sample, the weekly support group, the file full of dropping
T-cells, rising insurance premiums, the long-distance calls
that begin with how you feel, the powdery taste of
condoms, the yoga classes, reiki initiations, tea ceremonies,
fortune-tellers, bookshelves full of Zen tracts, Ayurvedic
diets, immune-building videos from celebrated and reviled
doctors, guided visualizations, bells to balance chakras
and crystals to cleanse auras, the health-care proxy, the
Tarot, the friend at St. Clare's, the friend at Beth Israel,
the friend who eats through a tube, the friend on a
respirator, the friend who no longer recognizes you, the lover
who died in August, the certificate of cremation, the
Quaker memorial, the Catholic mass, the Buddhist chants, the
little printed notice about ashes scattered over the
mountains in New Mexico, over a lake in the Catskills, the
wind lifting the leaves of holy tea above the Isle of Skye.
