Mike Davis Stories.
Early One Morning
EARLY ONE MORNING:
A matter of faith
I’ve always made it a rule to never discuss religion or politics with anyone. I’d no more go door-to-door proselytizing than fly to the moon.
That said: I’ve had my moments when despair was
very real indeed and I’ve been rescued – Yes rescued. There’s no other word for it.
Do I believe in God? I believe on something far greater than myself – That’s for sure. As a Lakota Sioux : I am but a tiny part of the whole – Custodian not owner. Who or what remains to be seen. My Gramma Lil told me I’d have ‘Feelings’ and that I should listen to them. At first it was little things: like only being attracted to a particular kind of girl who was kind and caring.
And then there were the places that exuded a calming, loving sense of well-being. When I was a kid living in Shawnee Mission Kansas: I nearly died of Scarlet Fever and spent many days in a state of delirium. From beyond the veil of that delirium I was running free with the former ancient Shawnee inhabitants of Lake Quivera, a very sacred lake that had become a Country Club for the elite of the area. I would eventually be revived by being immersed in a bathtub full of ice-water daily until the fever broke. There were middens and burial sites at or near a few of the places I surfed a lot that piqued a part of me that I never knew existed. Some places were solemn or reflective places and others seemed to bring a kind of calm, inner joy.
I’ve passed through places in Australia that are absolutely and shudderingly forbidding and have since learned that they were sites of Aboriginal atrocities.
There was a time in a ‘Bemo’ in Bali in the mid- seventies that Christine and I were riding in somewhere near Ubud, that passed near a sacred place and we both felt the Spirit of the Earth seem to embrace and lift us both spiritually. I asked our driver about it later and he informed us of its significance. Bali is indeed a very special place on this planet and I hope those who follow will feel its wonder.
Looking back, these experiences only seemed to prepare me for what was about to be revealed on a business trip to Japan of all places. It all started when our driver tried to hurriedly shepherd me past a group of monks outside of our hotel that’d caught my attention.
“Who were they?” I asked our driver, Matsuki San as we sped away.
“Shintoists. Stay away from them – They are very bad people. They worship trees!” he barked from the front seat. I would give them or their religion little thought for the following three weeks where we were in negotiations on a big export deal for my boards. It was a stressful time for English speaking David Puglisi from Bluefin Exporters and myself, suddenly engulfed by ten Japanese negotiators who’d suddenly forgotten English. It’d been a constant race from one importer to a retailer with ten stores who wanted quality and warranty assurances to a resort owner that wanted thirty boards for his establishment. By the Sunday of the third week I was crushed, so I begged off going shopping with Josh Adams and David Puglisi and walked the few blocks to the entrance of a kind of park right in the middle of Tokyo that we’d driven past every day.
I distinctly recall standing beneath the huge wooden beams at 9AM, that marked the entrance and looking back at the noisy hustle and bustle of the car and bus traffic and being beckoned into the peaceful respite only meters from this megalopolitan cacophony and stepping in.
I’m not sure how many steps I’d taken before I realized it was dead quiet. Startled, I turned to the entrance, beyond which the cars and busses continued unabated – albeit in dead silence. It was as if someone had hit the ‘Mute’ button. I was sorely tempted to straddle the threshold and test the validity of the illusion but chose to embrace the respite from the maddening hum.A few feet further into what I’d later learn was the Emperor’s Shinto Shrine; the walkway went from bitumen to earth, which further connects one to the Earth.
Entranced, I continued until I came to where the path became volcanic cinders and led to a small, what can best be described as, a grotto in the trees with a hand-hewn log meditation bench at its far side. As my feet crunched the cinder path, I could feel the crunching all the way up into my heart and became aware of the ‘Gaboom, gaboom, gaboom’ of my heartbeat. After a brief pause to acclimate to the new reality, I made my way to the bench and sat down and offered a prayer of thanks to whoever was responsible for this blissful and revitalizing calm.
I met David and Josh at a pre-arranged round building near our hotel for a late lunch at 2PM before going to ‘The Fifties’ revival community. I saw no one at all in the Shrine. I speak no Japanese. I spoke to no one and was completely on my own for the whole time and yet I came out of there knowing and understanding things that I’d never ever thought about before.
When I became enamored with Fraser Island, the largest sand island in the world, in the early nineties, it came as no
surprise that 100 foot tall gum trees could thrive with no soil at all – So much so that it had its own timber industry. And the sand is pure white. No nutrients at all. And yet these huge trees survive – indeed thrive on their own leaf litter. Somehow I’d absorbed all of this understanding of things I’d never thought about or even considered before that morning in the Shinto Shrine in Tokyo.
By this time I knew that I was sensitive to certain things and receptive to absolute truths that reveal themselves in the most wondrous and marvellous of ways.
If God spoke to you…would you listen?
Twenty-four years ago, my life changed dramatically. I’d just spread the ashes of my bud, Dougie Marshall, a Vietnam Vet and one of the best friends I’ve ever had who’d succumbed to liver and lung cancer due to his exposure to Agent Orange in Vietnam before returning to my wife of twenty-three years battling cancer, who’d had surgery on her neck the morning before.
When I arrived at the Osteo ward late that afternoon, they informed me that she’d developed an infection and was now in barrier nursing which is a two bed/per nurse situation. She was so delirious she wasn’t even aware of my presence. I returned to the flat the Cancer Foundation Hostel provided for spouses of cancer patients, had dinner, and went to be early.
A bit after one AM I received a call that Christine had been moved into Intensive Care lapsed into a coma and wasn’t expected to make it through the night. I had a cold shower and raced to the Intensive Care ward on the seventh floor of the Royal Brisbane Hospital where I was directed to another shower and dressed in sanitary Intensive Care cap, mask, gown gloves, and slippers before they’d admit me to her room.
At first, I could not find her amidst the seventeen IVAC pumps that beep and flashed around her bed with two or three Intensive care doctors buzzing around her. And when I finally did sight her – I didn’t recognize her. Her beautiful face was puffed up like a featureless soccer ball except for eye slits which made her look like a potato. Her delicate fingers were puffy yellow sausages at the ends of her arms.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?” I gasped and went weak in the knees. I came close to fainting dead away while the doctors tried to explain what was happening to her.
After the initial shock, I went to the park across the street and railed at the world. I ripped plants out of, kicked the heads off of flowers, picked up a park bench and heaved it into the middle of the mess and raising hell generally.
“Why? Why do we exist? Not to just die, surely?” I screamed.
“WHAT HAVE I EVER DONE TO DESERVE THIS, GOD?” I beseeched a sky that ignored me and just went on forever. The trees continued to sway to a rhythm I couldn’t hear. Birds went merrily about their business – But no voice from beyond or anywhere else bothered to respond to my plea – Nothing.
I phoned my daughters who’d only returned home after their mother had come out of the surgery on her neck and they dropped everything and immediately turned around and raced back to be at their dying mother’s side.
The Cancer foundation lady moved us all into a partitioned room with four beds: One bed, occupied by Vicky, my wife’s favorite cousin, another, by Chelsea, my seven- month pregnant daughter, who’d flown up to be with me, another by Alycia, my youngest daughter and the fourth one in the far eastern corner by me.
In the dark, lonely hours before dawn, I was awakened gently by what can only be described as the most gentle presence I’ve ever known. Not three feet from my bed in the absolute darkness there was an intense golden glow, yet soft – Somehow alive. Emanating from it, the most soothing, comforting, loving voice I’ve ever heard and it spoke softly and directly to me.
Don’t go. Please. I’m not delusional. This is important!
It was a caring, aware, presence. It spoke to my heart of hearts. At first about things that only I could know: feelings that I’d had about different incidents in my life that I’d never shared with anyone – Not a living soul. Deeply personal things – Incidents that I’d recognized as patently unjust despite the way they’d been interpreted by the powers that be – Whether it be an intolerant and bigoted father, teacher or coach.
“You were right,” the voice consoled. Kind and reassuring, it spoke of achievements and values that’d made me proud, some verging on selfless that I’d long since forgotten. It made no mention of my shortcomings, failures, though well-intended, failures none the less.
I was grateful for that. My own acknowledgment of those failures must’ve been enough.
It spoke of things concerning my life, wonderfully comforting, reassuring to know, especially, considering my current circumstances.
The kind voice then said that ‘Father’ was unhappy with the scattering of the tribes. That it was time for them to return as one.
Needless to say ‘it’ has puzzled me. (Constantly for the past twenty-five years.)
I only had one question: “What about Christine?”
“Christine will be all right. Things are as they should be. This isn’t about you.”
And then it was gone.
I’d never been more uplifted in my life.
I shared my experience with everyone there, the
following morning at breakfast. But no one heard or saw a thing. Despite their missing it, I felt blessed like nothing I’ve ever known.
The golden glow returned early the following morning and repeated exactly what had gone before.
I wasn’t alone – Never had been – And never will be: That was something that I now knew for certain for the first time in my life. It was the strength I needed at a time I needed it most.
I spent eighteen hours a day for six weeks surrounded by seventeen beeping Ivac pumps and two ICU doctors with her sweet head in my hands and my lips on her forehead whispering, “I love you.” And then one morning: one of her eyes opened and a tear ran down her cheek. She’d come back to me. The doctors told me later that it was a miracle that she survived and that she was gone for all money. It would be another six weeks before I took her home because her cancer had run amok and there was no way there could be anymore chemo, radiation, or surgeries.
“I want to die at home with my family,” she insisted and checked herself out of the hospital.
I took her home and nursed her, along with her cousin Vickie until she passed in May.
Miracles do happen. Chelsea had only found out she was three months pregnant three months earlier and gave birth to Amber Christine Marion Davis/Camarda three
months prematurely which allowed Christine to meet her firstborn grandchild and touch souls with her. A small thing really but a most wonderful and unexpected blessing.
I had asked God and he responded. The visitation buoyed me, kept me afloat for many months especially after Christine, passed away a few months later.
I was shattered – I’d lost my reason to live – I spent a lot of time subsisting in a grief-induced fog. I sought answers in churches – Finding instead: Uninspired dogmatic congresses run by elected men: well-meaning, but men none the less; bound by considerations of normal human understanding and convention. While accusing every other religion of heresy as they become an elitist society excluding all others – But no answers!
A few days after she’d passed, Bob Ansett my millionaire hire-car mogul neighbor who’d often call by for a coffee and swim, invited me to dinner. “What are you going to do now?” he asked, pouring me a beer.
“I dunno,” I’ve been her carer for fourteen months now and haven’t had a chance to even think about – After,” I replied honestly.
“Can I give you some advice?” he asked kindly.
“Sure – Shoot.”
“Take the goddamned old computer you’ve got and
drop it off the balcony and get a new one and learn to drive it – There aren’t going to be many guys your age and experience who will know what you know.”
It was good advice and I took eventually it.
You see: Grief, unlike death, is the final answer without a question – An immense all-consuming emptiness. Which brings me to the purpose of my rambling. After her death, I had no reason to live. I’d been her carer for nearly fourteen months and suddenly, she was gone. I have never felt emptier or lonelier than the days after her passing. I put Tony O’Connor grieving tapes in the player and wept big salty tears and mopped and mopped and mopped. I scrubbed and scoured and cleaned our flat from top to bottom, day, and night for a week straight. There was something cathartic in the act of sanitizing everything, a habit I’d acquired in the previous months of Bill Luppi’s, Dougie Marshall’s, and now Christine’s final confinement.
How did I know when I was finished cleaning?
I’d run out of tears and the soul wracking sobs had become a silent shuddering moan.
A skipper without a course on a craft without a rudder crying into a shredded sail, I awaited my fate.
I did survive and offer you this gift: You only get so many opportunities to be the most important person in the world to someone – Do not squander it because it changes you as nothing else can. My life, my novels, and my life philosophy have always reflected the sadness of the ‘Scattering of the tribes and the need for reconciliation because each tribe holds a very important part of the key to survival.
I stand with my First Nation brothers and sisters and all people of color and say “ENOUGH!
My head, heart, and soul screams, “ENOUGH!”
Go home and maintain the rage and express your compounded rage by voting to build a true Democracy.
Because in the background this virus is still gaining ground and momentum:109,000 avoidable US Deaths and counting.
We, as a species, either pull together or this virus will bring us all down.
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