The Ship of Death
Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion.
The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.
And it is time to go, to bid farewell
to one’s own self, and find an exit
from the fallen self
- D H Lawrence, The Ship of Death
We talked of trivial things. Triviality the only safe thing
to say in such a place. Shrouded in white, his face gaunt, his breath rasping.
The intimacy of the curtain drawn around the bed, made us shy of each other, but drawn back, other patients’ visitors gawked at us awkwardly.
I saw the long zigzag shaped scar on his chest, the normality
of stitching and re-stitching of flesh as if it were nothing but an old rag.
But I spoke to him of the
weather, rather than his heart surgery.
I asked him if he’s read anything, and he pointed at a pile
of books brought by thoughtful friends, who also struggled to fill the silence.
He said he couldn’t read, it required too much energy, too much focus. I asked
him if he wrote anything, he shook his head “I tried writing a letter yesterday,
but the words looked circular and foreign”.
If I was brave, I would’ve asked him right there and then “are
you afraid?” “is there anything you’d like me to do for you, after
you’re gone?”. But I kept rummaging in my head for something pleasant to say,
and had nothing.
“Could you check my e-mail? I could give you my
password” he said, through labored breathing.
“Yes, of course” taken a back. It was a bad internet week for
me. My wifi was down at home. My laptop was getting fixed, and I had one of
those flip phones, it was 2009. But for him to want to know whether a piece of
his got accepted by an unknown online magazine, baffled me. What does it matter
now! I couldn’t understand it, but I didn’t understand what dying is like.
I brought more books, I knew he was too tired to read. I
brought audiobooks and a CD player, I printed out poems I thought he might like
and read them to him, while he clutched at one last shot of immortality. Once,
I told him funny little things my four-year-old daughter said and did, trying
to make him laugh, straining his breathing further. He said “if you’ll excuse
me now” and turned his back to me, and I had the audacity to feel hurt.
After he was gone I found out that he had asked John to read The Ship of Death, by D. H. Lawrence at his funeral. And spoke to Pam about gifting his unpublished writing to Coventry’s public library. Had I been braver, would he have discussed something of importance with me?
Before his illness he encouraged me to read D. H. Lawrence’s work. To him Lawrence was a literary genius; he spoke fervidly of his talent. But I was doing my PhD then, and had too much mandatory reading, to read anything for pleasure. When I finally made time for Lawrence, I began to see his work through Fred’s eyes, the depth of his novels, the complexity of his characters, Lawrence’s courage to fight for his work in a society hostile to his beliefs. I wanted to talk to anyone who’d listen about the beauty of Lawrence’s books and poetry. I wished I could talk about Lawrence’s works with the one person who appreciated him the most.
You can listen to this memoir piece here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LO3kTnWeOuE&t=29s
