Bridges

In preparation, my shadow crossed that bridge. A mission, a reconnaissance in a way. It was just a moment in time I could never forget; I mean who could and soon it will be in the distance. I mean it is life changing, life is always changing. Of all the things we have weaved and engineered in life as humans you would think we would have found a way to control the weather, disease, and each other by now. The snow piling up and the wind was strong blowing off the frozen fields. Across the street I watched from my bed the tombstones bracing the wind for days as the snow drifted in front of them, as if the bodies were under all that snow still waiting on the grounds first thaw. That gap between breath and silence briefly on hold, waiting peacefully for the storm to pass. I am sure the dead have somewhere to be, but what is the hurry now?

***

The airplane that brought me here is a connector, but an electrician would not see it this way. To an electrician a connector is something to crimp between two wires and join them together, or maybe a fuse link to snap into place, or a receptacle and a plug, two everyday items taken for granite. The electrician might take his family down to the river on his days off and not realize the stepping stones to the other side are connectors, a bridge, a nuance not given too much thought about. They could have crossed on the walking bridge, but it would be more fun, a challenge, and a greater sense of achievement with the stepping stones. He might think this to himself; We did not come down to the river to cross it on a bridge. Where is the sense of adventure, of danger? There is no thrill in that. I mean that is the way I would look at it. I travel, I travel all the time, so I see it that way, the way an airplane is a connector, a train, a ship full of cargo. The way I see danger. It is all a massive link in my mind, everything we do, everyday is a bridge to the next, every sunrise, every sunset, every moon, a bridge—my last bridge, my last plane ride.

***

I think I was a product of my environment, harsh but not like wilderness or tundra or even desert harsh. Street harsh, scrappy to the point of success and to never be underestimated. John Henry and Paul Bunion, my first man crushes from a young age. Then later it was Tarzan, Aladdin, Aquaman, Spiderman, and Batman. I fell in love with the underdog at an early age. Maybe it is because I grew up an underdog in an underdog neighbourhood. Always struggling, always fighting. It seemed nobody in the neighbourhood cared about being a hero. They all just wanted to be number one. Only looking out for themselves. In my neighbourhood you either learned to run fast or fight and if you could not do either you hid in the library. I was a quiet kid, fighting started at an early age. I did not look for fights I was a bit of a loner, introverted I guess, but I am still not sure what that really means to be an introvert. I have two younger brothers, and they would bring the fights to me. They were the fast runners. I did not mind it; in fact, I fell in love with it. There is a certain romance knowing, an air about it, confidence, and respect between those in the same arena. I did not love it in an obsessive way, I never provoked a fight, just became good at finishing them. I loved to protect the underdog, the bullied, the weaker ones. I would stay up late and watch Ali, George Forman. I watched and learned from them. Once I became a teen I fell in love with body building and doubled my size in one summer. Went back to grade 11 after summer vacation and nobody recognized me. I was the top of the food chain; nobody really bothered me after that.

***

I stood in the same spot on the bridge for most of the day three months ago, it was a Wednesday. It was warm, no snow, and the sun shone all day with a nice breeze. I watched my shadow cross from one side to the other. My figure, a six-foot sundial and my head tossed salad, the sun hot revealing time as my shadow revolved from east to west as slow as time itself. I thought if I stood here long enough time would pass slowly and it is funny when I was young, I thought I had plenty of it. Condors where in my thoughts that day as I watched the traffic stream beneath me. Maybe it is the way condors rest and gather in high places where the air is thin, where flight is easy and seemingly endless. Holding their enormous wings wide open like giant arms with huge fingers spread apart at the ends. The only thing missing is a hero’s cape. They circled round in wide graceful effortless rings in the sky—on patrol. I thought all day on the bridge, about how maybe I could be a condor perched high on the bridge, but I did not have the balls.

***

Cancer is one opponent I never wanted to fight. Sure, some win the battle, but cancer has many variables, many personalities, many levels of cruelty. Where I live there are no choices when it comes to life or ending it. You live until the end; you do not decide when its time to go. But cancer does not care, it is the devil inside, an opponent that hides. Sometimes in your pancreas, sometimes in your lungs, me it is the liver. It grabs hold and will not let go. Slow to take away all that you behold. It makes an example of you in front of all your family and friends. It makes you kneel and beg for mercy, and you can never beg hard enough. You become a cruel example for everyone to see and for what? It has no friends, it has only enemies, so I am here, in Ontario, Canada. They understand things here, they have choices, they provide M.A.I.D. I can take control with assistance, with comfort. I feel the needle in my arm and the snow in front of those tombstones begins to melt, the sky opens wide and blue, I feel how thin air can be, my arms open like the wings of a condor then my fingers too, with my hairless head leading the way I rise and then circle, I circle, I circle around.



M.A.I.D. stands for Medical Assistance in Dying.