My new walking legs / Poem: Adam Antosh, God's brave soldier

What in tarnation is that pink flower peeking from my lamppost garden?

After walking outside I saw to my surprise it was a Rose of Sharon shrub that had taken root! I have several in my back yard, so somehow it had floated over to the front, a welcome addition to the fading bounty of late summer.

If it looks like a hibiscus, that's b/c its Latin name is Hibiscus syriacus.

After my back surgery 10 days ago, it took quite a while to get back to the Real Me. I was doped up on pain killers, wondering if I'd have to go to Rehab to get off. Without fanfare I went off three days ago with no problem.

The two things I enjoy most now are:

Falling asleep. When I had sciatica, the worst pain assailed while lying in bed. Every part of my left leg, from the butt on down to my toes, ached, throbbed, sizzled, gnawed and bit. But sleep I did.

Now I can lie in bed and enjoy the delicious feel of clean sheets beneath me, while all thought turns off and I lay in a kind of meditation with myself. I've wondered, in this state, if this is what true Buddha-like meditation is all about.

You go deep into your interior and find out about yourself and the world by going inside the universe of You.

So I lie there, usually sleeping downstairs in a bed in the family room, the back porch door open to the sounds of the night.

The crickets and cicada make a lovely fine-staccato sound, reminding us we're all part of nature, from the teeniest unseen bug up to the majestic lions on the Serengeti. Is it too late for me to visit Africa? Scott and I watched the 2006 movie Invictus w/Morgan Freeman playing Nelsen Mandela and I thought, How I'd like to visit South Africa, and then on to Kenya.

All the while I'm falling asleep I've got the radio on. Not necessarily softly. I listen to WXPN. Late at nite, "Echoes" comes on with John Diliberto. I find myself swallowed up by the haunting tunes he plays.

I have never slept thru the nite. Often, if I feel sleep is elusive, I'll turn on the light and start reading.

A friend sent me Just Kids by Patti Smith (b. 1946), the story of her lifelong relationship with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe, dead in 1989 at 42. It's a wonderful book evoking long-forgotten memories that surface unexpectedly and I savor them there in my bed of comfort, rather than bed of pain.

The other thing I cherish is taking a hot shower. My shower of choice is in my downstairs stall shower where I am at one with the hot water, letting it flow over the large black n blue marks around my waist, where the incision was made, and letting it sop my hair.

When I had sciatica, the best I could do was an occasional shower that since I was standing, was excruciatingly painful.

In honor of my new ability to shower, I selected a new shampoo at the Giant supermarket. In my upstairs bathroom I have some expensive shampoo that cost $20 a bottle when I went to a spa, so at the Giant I looked for some really cheap shampoo that was better than a bar of soap.

Found it! Alberto VO5 for 79-cents a bottle.

When I came outa the shower this morning, I smelled like someone else, not like me.

Scott is a mellow guy. The things that excite him are: the creatures in the backyard, seeing the mother deer and her fawns when he marches thru the path to the train station on his way to work, finding red tomatoes in our garden, checking out great movies from the library, seeing me, and this-here video, which, I too, love. It's a six-minute rant about our economy.

At last, Scott said, someone is telling the truth. He found it referenced in an article by Paul Krugman in the Times.

In yesterday's blog about my former psychiatrist, I mentioned a poem I had written. This morning I found it and proudly present:

POEM FOR ADAM, GOD'S BRAVE SOLDIER

Born Oct. 11, 1963, died of complications of influenza, on Nov. 29 2003

When you know a man,
and a phone call comes
and a woman in a sweet voice says,
"You know, Adam died, don't you?"
You say to her:
"Adam? Who? Adam? You can't mean Adam."

And you remember him
the last time he was there:
a man in a suit, a deep pink necktie
shoes shined like they do in the Marines
(though they'd never have him),
his cheeks puffed with those quick
sudden smiles that
made him famous in our crowd,
lifting you from gloom as he
beamed his victory:

years spent in unrepentant mental institutions,
long corridors where antiseptic hid the lugging
grief of bodies, while his life flowed by onto the
linoleum corridors,
following orders like a desultory Marine,
following the shufflers, himself one,
passing from room to room as they do
to pass the day,

Sunstreaked rooms, I have seen them, too,
clear windows that would not open even
if you stood and tugged them all night,
or pried them with your plastic spoon,

It was a vast institution, famous in its day,
where visitors couldn't help
but gawk at what went wrong.

A day came and he was sprung free forever,
his mother drove him home through one of the
numbered iron gates.
God, in one of his everlasting fits of joy,
allowed him to flourish once again
on the earth that would wait for him
forever
until he was old, or even dead,
but he was not old,
when he was allowed back
- some torment still required -
allowed again to dream of women
who might be his,
and for babies they'd bear,
with names
like Rachel or Eben,
as he pulled out the drive
on his way to work.

- January 2002

NOTE: Adam indeed was confined to Norristown State Hospital b/c there were no drugs invented that would quell his uncontrollable schizophrenia/schizoaffective disorder until the advent of Clozaril. Then, as the poem says, he was sprung free. He was an unforgettable brave soldier and in my opinion, died of a broken heart. His life's desire was to join his church in a mission to Africa. His psychiatrist said absolutely not. Shortly thereafter Adam was dead.

There was a snowstorm the day of his funeral, yet Givnish Funeral Home was packed. Members of his church mounted the stage to give praise to this extraordinary 40-year-old man whose embalmed remains lay in state. I too took the stage and addressed a brief encomium to his mother, Laura.