Warrior Pose (35 page)

I now have two recurring dreams that torment me. Their symbolism is obvious. The first is still the one where I am in a bustling newsroom, sitting at my desk and making no contribution, feeling guilty, and certain I'll be discovered any moment and fired immediately. The second is more frightening. I'm standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down into a dark abyss. Suddenly, the ground gives way
beneath my feet and I slip over the edge. As I fall, I reach out and grab a twisted tree root protruding from the sheer face of the precipice. I lack the strength to pull myself back up and can barely hold on. I feel the abyss pulling me down while I struggle to climb out. Finally, I lose my grip and plummet into the darkness, awakening with a muffled scream just as I'm about to hit bottom.

I've always had a need to feel like I'm in control. I think most people feel this way, especially men. We like to be in charge. Push forward. Win victories. Prove our strength. Save the day. I felt worthwhile, in charge of my life, and victorious as a journalist. Now I feel powerless. Totally helpless. The feeling gets stronger every day.

There's no doubt why I drink so much and am so dependent on the drugs. I'm scared to death. And I know the reason I can't face myself: I would abhor what I see. Sometimes friends come by and I watch myself start arguments with them. I want to stop myself in the
middle of it, but I can't because my emotions are so out of control. How did I become so pathetic? So angry? Such a coward? Always the victim? Where did this person come from? Where is the man I used to be? If my son were mature enough to see who I am, would he be proud or ashamed? The answer is so obvious to me that it makes me want to crawl into a dark hole and never come out again.

This is my last entry in the journal. I never pulled it together to make a video. I no longer have the physical or emotional strength to continue. It's a muddle anyway, with notes to Morgan and ramblings to myself. Still, I print everything on parchment paper, design a cover, and make a little book for him. I tiptoe into his room during his nap and place it on a high shelf in his closet.

Walking to his little bed, built to look like a convertible roadster, I gaze at him as long as I can before standing becomes too painful. Then I struggle to kneel down and manage to kiss his forehead. Morgan's eyes softly open, so I hug him and remind him of our covenant, that I won't let cancer take me from him. I mean it from the bottom of my heart, but I have no idea how to make it happen, and I really don't believe it's possible.

CHAPTER 20

Get Up, Daddy

I
T IS AUGUST 27, 1999. Just less than one year ago, I was diagnosed with cancer. Today is my fiftieth birthday. People from near and far have arrived at our home in Coronado to celebrate. There are former colleagues from the news business, relatives, and both recent and longtime friends. I've been in another mute period with a bleeding throat and can barely talk. What little voice I have is, of course, raspy and harsh. I have to make do. I'm too embarrassed to wear the Chattervox and let anyone hear the Darth Vader croak.

The party begins at one o'clock in the afternoon. By two o'clock, I'm lying on my portable lounge chair in the backyard, drinking a creamy stout beer. Wine burns my tender throat these days, stout beer soothes it. It's my latest medicine, so I can rationalize drinking it whenever I want. I greet everyone as I sip away, acting like my life is fantastic.

“You should try Yoga,” a distant cousin of Pamela's kneels down and tells me as I have another taste of stout. It's the first time we've met. He can't be much more than twenty years old. Says he's a Yoga teacher. Unlike me, he looks fit and strong, lean and supple.

“Oh, sure,” I rasp with a little laugh, like fingernails on the blackboard again. “I can barely walk and I've always been the stiffest person in the world. Plus, I weigh a ton. Then there's this broken back of mine. No chance, but thanks.”

“Okay, maybe someday, when it's right for you.” He doesn't push it and simply offers a gentle smile. There's something different about him. I feel drawn to his presence. He's calmer, more centered, and more serene than most people, especially for his young age. Still, the idea of Yoga seems as absurd as deciding it's time to take singing lessons or run a marathon. I excuse myself, roll off my lounge with a great effort, push myself up with my cane, head for the kitchen, and pop open another bottle of stout.

Dinner is served outdoors on tables we've borrowed for the party. After we eat, it's time for me to thank everyone and endure a friendly birthday roast before the sun goes down. We move my lounge to the front porch, where we've set up a microphone stand. When everyone's gathered, I stand up to thank them.

“Thaann…Kuh…You…All for Be…Being…Ahum…here.”

My voice is gone. I try to swallow the blood that's trickling into my mouth, but my throat is so swollen it's almost impossible. I can't get any more words out. I'm unsteady, leaning hard on my cane. Adrian, an African-American cameraman I worked with for years, jumps up and takes the mike.

“Don't you love it? He can't talk! I've waited all my life for this!” Everyone roars with delight.

I haven't seen Adrian in years. He's charismatic, witty, and irreverent. We were best friends when we worked together in Sacramento more than twenty years ago.

“I could never get a word in edgewise with him! Always talking, saying Adrian shoot this, don't miss that. How about this angle? You in focus?”

Everyone is continuing to have a good laugh as Adrian glares at me and says with his famous attitude, “Now, brother, you just lie down and listen for once in your life.”

There are roasts and toasts, laughter and love. Adrian then closes on a personal note.

“I've always fought prejudice and had trouble trusting white people.” He glances at me with a smile, “But you did something that blew my mind and taught me a lesson I'll never forget.” This is too kind. I know where he's going and think I might cry at any moment.

“We were working together in Jamaica,” Adrian turns toward the crowd, “and we had a driver named Vernal who was so black he looked blue, made me look almost white.” Everyone laughs again.

“On our first day, we stopped at a fancy restaurant in the countryside outside of Kingston. The owners were also black, but much lighter in color. They told Vernal he couldn't eat with us. He was too dark. We had a Jamaican government official with us who was also a
brother
and he informed us this was the custom in his country. The super-black folk were lower class and not allowed to mix. I was hungry and said fine, asked Vernal to go wait in the car, and told him we would bring him something when we were finished.” Adrian glances back at me now.

“You said no. You gave everyone hell, shamed them into seeing their prejudice. You went out to the car and brought Vernal back inside for lunch, set him down at the head of the table, and told him to order the most expensive meal on the menu.”

This was more than twenty years ago, and Vernal still writes me once a year to say thank you for the only steak dinner he has ever had.

“I realized then that my people can be prejudiced, too, and that I was blind to it. So thank you, my brother, thank you.” Adrian and I are both crying now as he leans down for a hug. I'm incredibly touched by the story of Vernal, but it also reminds me that I was once a far better person than I am now. That I once had a life I will never recapture.