Increasingly, the world looks as if it were falling apart in the most frightfully coordinated way. It’s the total opposite of the circus clown who rides his little car around the ring. The parts of his vehicle come off one by one to bouts of laughter from the audience. First to go is the hood, then the left rear fender, bits and pieces scattered around until the wheels go and he’s left walking around with the steering wheel in his hands. In contrast, the world seems to be falling apart all at once, and no one is laughing. Infection numbers are increasing, economies tank, livelihoods are destroyed. Nothing is as it used to be.
I have recovered from another week of fasting, though much less from the therapy. The pustules in my face were briefly receding when I wasn't eating, but with another dose of the antibody, they have now returned and been joined by a thousand little red spots on my shoulders and stings on my scalp that are hard to pinpoint despite very little hair obscuring my investigation. I don’t feel much pain overall but increasing discomfort. This therapy unfolds in a much less pleasant manner than the two before. There are four more sessions to go before another evaluation of progress (or progression). This will be a veritable challenge if my skin gets worse every time, but I'm happy to suffer if the result is right in the end.
We are lucky that we have been affected by the virus in only the mildest way. We won’t be able to see the grandparents in Argentina this Christmas, but beyond small irritations such as this, the virus hasn’t caused us any harm. Our jobs keep us busy and in full pay. Our children are happy and free of worries. Their childcares are running as always. They have even started to disburse compensation for the time they were forced to close during lockdown in April and May. My cancer therapy has never been delayed or rescheduled. Our friends and relatives are anywhere between fine and just hanging in, but all are healthy. Only the news and stories from some friends pierce holes into our bubble. It’s a strange state to be in.
Our children are still small. They live simple, straightforward lives of wonder, discovery and amazement. Every day brings them inexplicable experiences. They see things they’ve never seen before, even if they don’t venture far from their home. They try to make sense of what they don’t understand, and learn. They don’t interpret what happens outside the context of their small lives.
This is blissful for me. I’m daddy, nothing more and nothing less. What I do and what I look like has little bearing on how they see me. If I get loud because I don’t like what they do, they accept it and quickly forget the pain I caused them. They don’t question what I do. I’m one of their primary points of reference, and they come back to me. I remain unchanged to them.
I also remain unchanged to them no matter my appearance. Pus might explode all over my face, but they still jump at me and kiss me and want to play train. Disfiguration has no meaning to them. Mom and dad inhabit higher spheres than that. This is extremely gratifying. I can forget all side effects and ignore what the drugs do to me because it makes no difference to the children. It’s a simple bargain. We give them a warm and loving home that they can fill with their childish energy and occasional craziness, and they revere us as higher beings outside physical shells.
Last week was the first week of the girl’s fall break. We had registered her for a sports program for small children. Over five days, she got to try out half a dozen sports and played and ran until exhaustion. We continued to go to work, free of supervisory obligations. Every night, the girl came home happy and with more friends than she had before.
This week, we’re in Montreux, a blessed place at the far end of Lake Geneva, by the water but just underneath the Alps. The town has everything: a long promenade in the sun, the studio where Queen recorded a lot of their music, a cogwheel railway into the snow, plenty of hikes nearby, hicks that rev the engines of their overpowered cars throughout the night, and beautiful buildings from a time when only the wealthy vacationed here.
We walked along the lake to Chillon castle and spent hours exploring it. For one of the country’s top tourist attractions, it was much less of a trap than I had feared. We hiked down from the snow through mud, rocks, a most enchanted forest, and meadows recently abandoned by the cows. It took us five hours. The boy’s three-year-old legs were almost up to the task. We walked up a deep gorge with thundering waters and rode a little train deep into the last working salt mine in Switzerland. The cherry on the cake was today’s trip up to the glacier above Les Diablerets. The girl loved throwing herself down snowfields on her belly, head first. The boy moaned about the cold.
A bridge to nowhere at 3000 m.
Getting away is important for me, with my family but also without. In the past, business trips once a month helped me refocus, relax and reappreciate what I have at home. Late last year, business trips helped boost the stubbornness (not strength!) I need to continue my fight. These trips have come to a complete halt. I haven’t been away for work since January. To make up for this and also compensate for a workshop that had been planned for November but has long been canceled, I have put together a weekend in Berlin with a friend.
All looked good a few weeks ago. Since then, the German state where my friend lives, quiet and unassuming but apparently secretly seditious, has imposed quarantine on returnees from Berlin. This week, Switzerland did the same. I hadn’t booked a flight, and the hotel can be canceled without penalty. Not traveling causes me no pain, but I take it as another indication that the world is falling apart.
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