A Spork in the Road

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

Let’s talk about Italy.

In the north are the Alpine lakes where residents of Milan go on weekends and holidays. The best known lake is Lake Como, which according to the chatter on our tour bus has a sole inhabitant by the name of George Clooney. We drove past Lake Como on our way to Lugano, Switzerland, and let me tell you, George Clooney owns a LOT of houses.

Next to Lake Como is Lake Maggiore, which is a very long, very slender lake surrounded by one adorable town after another and roads that are (I measured) six inches wide. You might ask, how can such a road accomodate two tour buses, three scooters, five pedestrians, and one SmartCar across its narrow width? I don’t know. It’s Italy. We don’t worry about petty details like this; we’re too busy wondering what we’re going to eat next.

We stayed in Stresa, which has become a synonym for “nirvana” in our house. We arrived in the evening, bedraggled and exhausted from being dragged across Italy at breakneck speed, and settled into our beautiful hotel room. I opened the French doors (I know! In Italy!) and lay myself across the bed and looked out through the rain at willow trees and drapey pines and tall lindens. I felt something relax in my core.

The next day we acted as though we were not with a tour group. We woke up late and ate breakfast late and strolled down the Promenade and wandered the streets of town until we found a restaurant we liked. We ate so. Much. Food. And it was the best food we had for the entire trip.

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The morning I met with the oncologist to find out my diagnosis, I thought I might break into hysterical sobs before he even walked in the door. I knew I had some form of lymphoma — but which kind? How far progressed? How difficult to treat?

I looked out the doorway at the painting that hung in the hallway. And I said to Lil, “Doesn’t that look like Stresa?” It was one of those standard issue hotel-style paintings, but it was of a promenade beside a blue lake surrounded by mountains, and I felt I could have stepped into the painting, Mary Poppins-like, into the beauty and serenity of Stresa.

That painting got me through to the moment my oncologist said “Hodgkin’s” and my life reappeared in front of me in two syllables.

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My favorite poem is T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” I’ve always loved it; this summer I set about memorizing it, for some inscrutable reason.

I was always deeply affected by the lines: “I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, / And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, / And in short, I was afraid.” Having turned thirty earlier in the year, I’ve been newly conscious of mortality and aging this year. Having dealt with death in an unexpectedly direct and personal way when Lil’s dad died gave these words additional power.

What I think about now, reading these words, is that flickering moment of greatness. It won’t last, but what a miracle to have the moment at all.