The Photographer’s Resurrection
Karen was a
clinical psychologist for more than three decades, and it was only after
retirement she took up photography seriously.
She made some very nice portraits, but her best pictures are art photos. Insects, trees, and flowers; taken in extreme
close-up or in unusual light, they display nature’s beauty in surprising
ways. And some of her work achieves pure
abstraction, leaving the viewer guessing as to how the images were captured.
Many weeks,
months really, have passed since Karen made any photos. She battles cancer, chemotherapy, and pain
medications. Too weak to stand without
aid, unable to hold a camera, she also struggles to pursue coherent thought;
the studied, inventive attention needed for art photos is beyond her.
It is
possible that she will rally physically.
She could receive more chemotherapy.
Chemotherapy might significantly retard or reverse cancer’s growth. At this stage we still can hope that Karen
will make more pictures. But none of
those things are likely.
As a
psychologist, Karen regularly had occasion to diagnose dementia. That she often cannot complete a sentence or
thought frightens and discourages her.
Along with everything else, she fights depression.
I approve
of Adrienne Martin’s term for hope; hope is a syndrome. Hope shows up in our beliefs, plans,
feelings, and perceptions. Hope colors
our imagination. I also approve of
Martin’s notion of incorporation. When we
have judged that a hoped for outcome is possible and then judged that it is
practically important to us, we license ourselves to incorporate the hope into
our lives. We think about the hoped for
thing, we perceive the world in its light, and we let ourselves imagine it.
To that
end, here is a bit of imagination. Please,
please, please: I am not saying what will be; I am only imagining what might
be. (The words above were written in
September 2016. Those that follow were
written later.)
A Fine Green Morning
Karen
dreamed, but disjointedly. She was lying
in a bed, the hospital bed delivered by hospice. How long had she been here? But then, in her dream, she was seated in the
blue recliner. She liked that chair; she
bought it for her home office three years ago, and they had moved it to the
living room. For some days, maybe a
week, she sat and slept in the recliner until, as the cancer consumed her
strength, Phil called hospice for the bed.
She knew she would die in that hospital bed. Why did they move her back to the recliner?
She
recognized photographs on the wall above the sofa. She had directed Phil when he mounted
them—this one there, that one a bit higher—and the result pleased her. The photography instructor at the college,
John Bennett, had praised her work, and Phil especially liked her “art”
pictures. Close up photos of a cat’s
eye, a flower, and green growing things, filled with pristine detail—the
pictures satisfied. If only she had started
photography sooner, or if the cancer hadn’t come back…
Karen shook
her head, at least in her dream. She
would not waste strength on
regrets. The photos were what they
were. She had made them, and they
satisfied. The making of them had taught
her to look at God’s world. She had found amazing treasures just walking
the streets of Newberg. Of course, that
was before the pain in her back and legs put an end to such things…
How long
had it been since she had strength to hold a camera? Three weeks?
Actually, she said to herself, it’s a blessing I’ve gone downhill so
fast. Just a month ago Phil drove me to
visit Tim and Tia. But my gut rebelled
and Tim had to take me back next day.
I’m glad to die quickly without lingering.
She looked
closely at the photo of Buddy, the neighborhood cat. Then she thought: How am I able to get so
close? The pictures are on the other
side of the room. And I’m not in the
living room. I’m in the hospital bed,
dreaming of the living room.
It’s legal
for hospice to prescribe strong opiates.
I wonder which one they’re giving me.
I wouldn’t have expected to think so lucidly at the last. I feared dementia, but this isn’t so bad, not
from the inside. Maybe as I fall deeper
into the last sleep, everything happens in my mind. Phil or Jennie see me lying in a bed and wait
for my last breath. But on the inside,
it goes on forever. Is that eternity?
She turned
her head. Dining table here, piano
there, the door, the windows; everything was in its place. She certainly seemed to be standing, facing the north wall, alone in her
house. Judging by the light from the
windows, it must be early morning. She
took a step forward. Buddy and the other
pictures were within arms reach.
I’m
here. I’m really here.
Shocked: Am I a ghost?
It took three
steps to reach the piano. She pressed a
key and was rewarded with sound. Not a
ghost, then?
Three
decades of psychological study and practice carried her mind like a rushing
river. What an amazing phenomenon! I am lying in a bed, dying of cancer, and yet
I experience a lucid, reflexive dream.
The best dream of my life.
“Karen,
honey.”
She spun
around. “Mom!” (In the back of her mind: I would have
expected Phil.)
“It’s not a
dream, Dear. That is why it is I, not
Phil. How do you feel?”
Karen took
in a breath, and it felt wonderful. She
realized at that moment that she felt no pain: no pain in her back, no stabbing
pain in her leg, and no mental confusion.
“It’s not
drugs.” Betty smiled and shrugged. “It took me a while to get used to feeling
good. I didn’t have as much pain as you,
but heart disease made me feel so worn out.
And I was sick longer. It was a
relief to let it go.”
“I’ve died,
then?”
“Oh
yes. They told me I could welcome you,
and I thought this room would be a good transition. Is it alright?”
“It’s
wonderful, Mom.” Karen hugged her, and
in that hug, deep wonder began to sink into her mind. “It’s just like it was.”
Betty
chuckled. “Not quite. The room has changed a little since they
moved you into the bedroom. And a while
ago, after you died, the hospice men came to remove your body. Do you know what Phil will do with it?”
“He
arranged for cremation.”
“Oh. It doesn’t matter, of course. But I never liked the idea of cremation. I’m glad you buried me next to Glenn.”
“Yes, we
did. In that little cemetery near The
Dalles.”
Betty took
Karen’s hand. “Are you ready to go?”
Karen felt
surprise. “Where are we going? Do I have a choice?”
“You made
the choice long ago. And you know where
we’re going.” Karen’s mother’s eyes
sparkled with joy.
Mother and
daughter left the house, walking into a fine green morning. “Oh, look!”
