Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me(54)

“Yes,” I whispered, “yes.”



This morning: A bowl of blueberries for breakfast. “Each one gives a quantum of pleasure,” O says with delight, then reconsiders, “if pleasure can be quantified.”

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7-13-15:

Very, very tired, I did the dinner dishes quickly, gathered my things, and earlier than usual, told Oliver I was heading to bed and said good night. He agreed, he was exhausted, and we kissed. But then as I headed for the bedroom, O called to me from his desk, “Do you know why I love to read Nature and Science every week?”

I turned. “No,” I shook my head. I was almost confused; this seemed such a non sequitur.

“Surprise—I always read something that surprises me,” he said.

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7-15-15:

O no longer wants any visitors to the apartment unless he expressly invites them: “I don’t have time to be bored!”

When he is not resting, he is working on new pieces nonstop.

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NOTES ON A PAD:

7/17, THURSDAY: LaGuardia to Durham, depart @ 2:29 P.M.; arrive @ 4:20 P.M.

7/19, SATURDAY: Durham to LaGuardia, depart @ 11:05 A.M.; arrive 12:39 P.M.

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7-18-15:

Visiting the Lemur Research Center at Duke University this afternoon.

We slept okay, though O woke at 3 A.M. with terrible cramps in his calves and feet, his feet fixed into a painful dorsal flexion, so hard and rigid it took half an hour to massage them smooth. Is this from dehydration? His urine, dark again.

Evening:

“I think that is the most wonderful sight I have ever seen,” O said quietly as we drove away from the Lemur Center. “It is the vitality of the lemurs that is so beautiful … and the dedication of those who care for them.”

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7-25-15:

In the country: O is finishing one essay, working on two others—at least two others. “How’s the writing going?” I ask, waking from a nap.

He smiles mischievously. “I meant to stop, but I couldn’t.” And he goes back to it. I watch. He doesn’t have a fancy desk here; it’s just a folding table. All he needs is a pad and his fountain pen and a comfortable chair. Completely immersed, he whispers to himself as he writes—consciousness half a step ahead of the nib of his pen.

Later, we go for a swim. The water in the pool is a bright emerald green, caused by an excess of copper and iron in the well.

“You are swimming in the elements,” I tell O, “swimming in a pool of copper.”

“Lovely,” he murmurs, doing his backstroke.



Studying Bach, August 2015



8-1-15:

He plays Beethoven—he never used to—long, haunting pieces, complex pieces—whereas he used to only play Bach preludes, and in stops and starts.

He reaches for my hand when we walk, not just to steady himself but to hold my hand.

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8-4-15:

Back from the hospital:

The surgeon implanted a catheter in his abdomen to help drain off the fluid accumulating from the tumors: O, in pain, uncomfortable, terribly nauseated. Doctors say he must eat and drink to keep his strength up. The only thing he can think of that he’d like to eat is gefilte fish.

We order from Russ & Daughters, and decide to try others for comparison.

I take the subway to Murray’s Sturgeon Shop on the Upper West Side. It could be delivered but I am frankly relieved to get out of the apartment, though it’s a grim, rainy, humid August day.

A woman waiting in line overhears me say that I am picking up an order for Oliver Sacks.

“The Oliver Sacks?” she can’t help asking.

I nod.

“He’s a very great man. I’m so sorry that he’s ill.”

The old Jewish man behind the counter nods and murmurs, “Yes.” I try to pay the bill but he refuses to charge me.

My eyes fill with tears, and I say thank you.

I cry on the way to the subway, glad for the rain.

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Undated Note:

I find O lying on the bed, eyes closed: “Letters to various people are writing themselves in my mind,” he explains—farewell letters to friends and family members. He later begins dictating these to Kate and to me; it’s almost hard to keep up, he has so many he wants written. Each one is thoughtfully personalized, and of course soon he begins receiving letters back.

I feel very self-conscious about this: Should I write a letter to him, too?

One day I simply blurt out, “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t write you a letter.”

“Is that the start of a letter?” O says, smiling.

“Yeah, one in which I don’t know what to say. How do I ever say everything you mean to me?”

“Come here,” O says, and hugs me.

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8-10-15:

O is working on a new piece: “Sabbath.” Every now and then, a little request comes, always phrased politely: “If you would be so kind: Look up something for me on your little box?”

“Little box” is his name for an iPhone, a name he finds too ugly to pronounce, to speak—“It’s not even a word,” as he points out, “it’s a brand.” Sometimes he calls the phone my “communicator,” as if out of Star Trek.