I’ve been stewing about this particular subject for some time, pretty much since my biopsy came back as positive for cancer cells. There are times when one is forced to throw one’s hands up and beg for an answer to the question, “Why me?” This has become my opportunity for such.
Those of you who know me personally know that I am a storyteller. I am an actor. I must admit, there is a temptation to pen, “I was an actor before all of this happened.” But that’s not accurate. I am an actor, even if only by avocation. My first on-stage experience was over 25 years ago; I haven’t really looked back. Those of you who are involved with theatre production know my particular and peculiar addiction. And, now, by theatrical standards, I have been rendered mute.
How deeply does this affect me? Can it alter me self-image? Let’s talk a little about my self-image, shall we? As you may have noticed, each of these blog entries is listed as “by PaduanBenedick” in the footer. So what does that mean to me? PaduanBenedick is the username that I have chosen for myself on multiple websites and web services across the internet. If you Twitter, you can find me at http://twitter.com/PaduanBenedick, for example. But what of it, you ask. What does it mean?
My undergraduate background is in English. I graduated from Middle Tennessee State University in 2005 with a B.A. in English (and a minor in dance, as I mentioned in a previous entry). I am a Shakespeare buff; I had read literally everything penned by The Bard before I graduated high school. Of course, that was a while ago, so don’t quiz me, deal? Have you read Much Ado About Nothing, or seen a performance? It is a very important show for me, for a couple of reasons. First, and most of all, is because when I had the opportunity to be a part of a production of the show, I met the love of my life. She is standing by me through all this inexplicable hell, and I could not go on without her. For that happy accident, I am eternally grateful. Second is because of one of the leading male roles – Benedick of Padua.
For those of you unfamiliar with the play, Benedick is a scoundrel; he is quick-witted, sharp-tongued, and – as the play begins – disgustingly misogynistic. However, as the drama (and comedy – remember, it’s quite the funny show, arguably the most popular of Shakespeare’s comedies) unfolds, Benedick is met by his perfect match, Beatrice. She is equally quick-witted and sharp-tongued. Theirs becomes one of the most balanced, even, egalitarian relationships in the literature of the period. Benedick not only accepts Beatrice as his complete equal, he defends her as such when her words and actions are called to question; perhaps more importantly, she defends herself with his social support, an unheard of arrangement at the time. His transformation from misogynist to feminist is complete (sure, I may be overstating just a bit; however, I will wholeheartedly contend that Benedick does become one of Shakespeare’s most feminist male characters), and he sacrifices none of himself – neither his intellect, nor his wit, nor his humor – in the process; indeed, he takes joy in his own transformation. Needless to say, the role of Benedick has always been on my dream list.
And now I cannot speak. Oh, I can communicate. With limited effectiveness. If I intone slowly. And those around me are patient. And forgiving. And have good imaginations.
Such is the font the righteous indignation that swells within me. And I would love someone or something to blame. It would be easier, would it not, if there were a force or a person or an entity on whom we could heap the onus of all the disappointment and despairs of our lives? And, yet, there is nothing; there is no one. Blame God? Goddess? The Universe itself? Choose your celestial constant, your higher power of preference, and it still cannot avail you.
This is no one’s fault by my own. This is cancer – it is a medical condition brought about by a confluence of behavioral and environmental factors. I used to smoke. I still drink (ok, not at the moment, I can’t really swallow yet, and I’m probably not supposed to inject liquor, wine, or beer sraight into my stomach tube). Genetics would be the kicker – again, nobody’s fault there. It would be absurd to blame a small portion of my genetic composition of for a predispostion to certain illnesses or conditions when it is the same structure that gives me a musical ear and a rhythymic step. I cannot loathe part of myself without unwinding that tapestry that creates who I am – this is true on both an experiential level as well as a genetic one. Had I never smoked, would I be a different person? Which experiences would be different? What memories would I not have, and how would there absence make me a changeling?
So my indignation, righteous or not, is a tempest in a teapot. It is a powerless frustration that rails against something that I perceive as unfair, as unjust, as cowardly of the universe itself – ah, cut me down so I cannot bend you to my will, dear universe? – and it is mine. It is my strength. It is the impetus to put one foot in front of the other, to type one more line, to play one more note, to dance one more step.
Draw your strength from where you can. I have found strength in family and friends, in companionship and solitude, in joy and – now – in anger. Yoda would urge caution, but this is not the anger of destruction that rages to erase all in its path. This is an anger of immolation that burns aways the imperfections of vision, till a clarity of purpose and a strength of spirit remain. I will go on.
Perhaps I am making too much of this. Perhaps I am writing these words for the sole purpose of motivating myself. Whatever the case, at this moment, I believe them. I believe me. And that will make all the difference.
Be well, friends. Take care of each other.
Amen and blessed be.
