Harry Potter and the Half-Shrunk Pop
That Dad’s condition still has the power to surprise me keeps coming as a surprise to me.
After the chaos of the first couple of weeks of Dad’s illness, and then the incremental revelation of his cancer, we’ve settled into what constitutes the new normal. I have become accustomed to the traitorous cells which are chewing Dad up from the inside out (and downside up, as it leaped from prostate to lymph nodes, creeping upward through bones and settling in its new environs like kudzu). I go over lists of side effects of this treatment or that, or I research symptoms on the internet, filled with impersonal facts about his personal experience. I have become familiar with his new gait as he shuffles to accommodate both his catheter and his arthritic foot, an unfortunate coincidence of timing for a symptom wholly unrelated to his cancer as it renders him more vulnerable-looking than he really is. But as his arthritis has slowly receded, he’s taken control of his life in bigger bites again, shopping for himself, entertaining guests, going out to eat. It is a marked improvement.
And I saw him just a few days ago so you’d think I would know, right? He came over with a couple of friends from Denver and we had a pleasant visit. It was warm, the day bright. Our enormous banana trees make everything other-worldly in our back yard, a trip to a very tiny Land of the Lost where a moderate-sized King Kong might drop by at any time for tea, or to squeeze an itty-bitty native; Dad admired the overwhelming growth. He laughed easily, talked loudly, admired our new shed. He chuckled at our chickens because that’s what they’re for, and bragged proudly about his little family to his friends.
Then I went to Vancouver with my son to visit my brother. Just a few days, Tuesday to Friday. Our son is completely infatuated with his uncle; his uncle returns such devotion with great warmth and love, entertainment and car talk. Plus biking, which will always win our son’s heart. Not once did my brother and I speak of Dad; I think we’ve both become weary of thinking about it, so we forgot it for a while as he squired us around to car dealerships (where our car-obsessed kid sat in a $250,000 Aston Martin, perhaps the only person I will ever know in this life to do so) and sushi restaurants, beaches and the science museum. He tirelessly entertained us, though we both agreed we were wasted by the end. Nevertheless, no discussion of Dad’s cancer, which was a better vacation than most.
Upon returning from BC a couple of days ago, Dad and I spoke on the phone. Mom described it a while ago: “He sounds exactly as he always did, as if nothing has changed. You would never know he was ill if you didn’t see him in person.” It’s true. Every time we speak on the phone his stentorian voice rings as true as when he taught at the university. No weakness is found there. He sounds fine, and indeed is fine, since his mind remains unmolested by the ravages of disease, hormone therapy, or time.
We’re still chipping away at the Harry Potter movies, working up to the newest release (a big field trip for us, to a movie theater–a place neither Dad nor I have been in years); I went last night to see Number Five with him. Aside from recognizing the same childlike glee in him that I noticed the last time we watched one together, there was something else. We watched and laughed and sympathized and castigated. His willingness to release himself to the forces of the film (a willingness I do not share, unable to stop myself from my interior crankiness) is utterly complete; he arrests his critical mind (which unfailingly critiqued greater works over a long career as a college professor) so that he can be completely transported to the world of our hero.
We didn’t really talk much; there wasn’t time. I had to get home as soon as the movie was over but we shared the experience which was enough for him. We hugged deeply when I was leaving, and as he approached me, he came in just above eye-level to me. I could feel the bones under his muscles that have faded to nothingness under assault from the cancer and lack of mobility from his foot. His spine is contracting. His clothes hang wrong. He’s pale.
The picture of a diminished Dad caught me off guard completely. His size was all wrong; how could this be the same father, who, while never a giant, was vital and active and rode his bike for forty-odd years to get his groceries? Why could I look almost directly into his eyes? How could he disappear in front me while I was briefly distracted?
We spoke of seeing the Half-Blood Prince in the theater soon and then the interminable wait to see the last installments, the two-part final chapter of the Harry Potter series. He mentioned that we would now be like all the other shmoes waiting, instead of catching up. And it occurred to me before I had a chance to brush it away that the wait could be even longer this time, perhaps eternal if we’re not lucky.
It was an unsettling, heartbreaking thought.
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Dear Q., Sorry to worry you with my diminishing state–though I can’t help but notice it, noticing it is about all I do with it. As if there were something else to do. Yes, I am a tottering, doddering old wreck–thankfully not yet reduced to idiocy. Let’s hope we are all spared that.
Although I am perfectly aware that the Potter movies are not Fellini or Bergman (but how Fellini would have relished working with the effects available in these films, though he certainly didn’t NEED them), and that Anthony Lane in the New Yorker castigates the newest one for being too literal, too full of the minutiae of Potterdom, I think it’s important to see these quintessential kid movies with the eyes of a kid, as much as possible. For those who have been enthralled by the adventures and misadventures of Harry, Hermione, and Ron, to leave out any of the specifically Potteresque details would be almost a crime–so I am willing to look uncritically, just as if I were only 15 (though thank the fates that I don’t have to actually live through that time again!). So, if part of me is well aware that I’m not watching 8 1/2 or The Seventh Seal, I’d rather not contaminate the experience with that awareness. And I love watching with someone who, for all the “crankiness”, is still just a kid at heart–and will always be my precious little girl.
I’m so pleased that you and Chris gave yourselves a rest from Dad’s Disease. Love, Dad
I don’t think one can be prepared, especially if as was the case with me, you just go away for a couple of days and are surprised all over again.
But Dad’s voice is the true indicator of his being, so we go with that. The body is only so much meat, in this case a little past its shelf-life. Eh, we’ll all be there soon enough.
Hi Q, Love you, first last and always. So vivid, your word pictures, feelings, facts, what a writer! I ‘ve not seen Charles yet, will be with you all soon, Not prepared, if it is possible anyway, for the sight of half shrunk Pop, since I only hear that wonderful strong voice and spirit, the wisest guy i know, with that pure kid zest. My dear, thank you for all this. I see Vancouver, Chris and Milo, and your wonderful banana treed oasis. that’s all i can say. Now for strong morning coffee, and the overgrown Cape Cod backyard where, if he were here as usual, Charles would already be out drawing. I’ll read more. later. love, Bets
It just comes as a shock sometimes. I swear, I leave town for a couple of days and *pow*, diminished Dad. Not that I think you’ve actually gotten smaller in four days (though you might have), it’s that my perception of you has returned to normal. And talking on the phone always provided the perfect disconnect: your voice remains as strong as ever, your humor as forthcoming, and your desire to enjoy life makes it easy to forget. Which is a good thing, but a surprise sometimes.
As to watching the movies with you, it gives me tremendous joy to watch them with you. My own crankiness doesn’t come from their inability to match the details, but their inability to cover the vastness of the books, an impossibility no matter who makes the movies. They shouldn’t be Fellini, and they are exactly what you expect from them: adventures about three teenage children and the adults making their lives complicated. They just miss my favorite nuances sometimes.
And my happiness sitting next to you while we watch them far outweighs any crankiness I’m unable to suspend. I’m completely thrilled that you’re enjoying them as much as you are; these are the important things, not whether or not the movies capture the spirit or the letter of the thing. I will remember this long past the episode “Half-Shrunk Pop.”