Recently I could tell that my condition was getting worse. It was harder to maintain my balance, harder to get up the stairs, harder to go to sleep at night. However, my part of our project is as good as done, and Didier had only ten pages to go. In five days, I’ll be in the hands of Air France and then in those of my daughter and wife and then home. Before I leave, I will see Kathrin from Heidelberg, Matti and Lucy, Jean-Marc Mandosio, and Pierrette and Serge. I plan to invite all my friends to lunch on Friday. As usual, I don’t want any drama. I want everyone to have fun to remember the day by.
Writing an ALS Diary seemed like a good idea at first. Formulating our experience gives us a sense of control over it. Unfortunately, writing about ALS means thinking about it more than necessary. I’m having difficulty finding the right tone as well. I’m not witty enough to make good jokes about death. Nor do I want to force my conversation partners or readers to perform their regrets. In order to give satisfaction to my sense of finality—without making my fate more important than it is—I find myself concentrating on the fate of the planet and of humankind. I wish from the bottom of my heart that I had made my opposition to falsehood and greed the prime concern of my life. If I couldn’t make the good cause my first concern, I would like to make it my last, futility notwithstanding. I prefer to think about the state of the world instead of pondering my condition.
Then there is Pierrette. She is astonishing. She and my wife have such fertile imaginations, can be so full of love and kindness. Pierrette can talk about French politics more sensibly than almost anyone I know, but her real gifts are her singing, writing, and acting talents. In photographs, she shows her age, but, experienced live, she is so completely alive that the years disappear. Her eyes flash, she gestures dramatically, her voice is that of a singer and actress. She falls into roles and breaks into song. She embodies for me provincial French womanhood at its liveliest and most charming, more natural than the Parisians I’ve met, more open in her enjoyment of her simple way of living than we in America. She is for me what my wife is for the Austrians. An amateur is a person who acts, sings, and writes out of love. They are both impassioned amateurs. My impression is that the clichés we summon in thinking about the sexually free-wheeling French don’t apply to Pierrette. She married young and has been faithful to her loved ones for all the years of her marriage. I believe her when she tells me there were no mid-life crises for the Azais-Blanc.
After Pierrette left, I found a message from my wife asking if I was flying home this Saturday and telling me that Hannah, who had promised to pick me up, would be in Texas visiting a friend. As it turns out, Veronika will pick me up. I’m looking forward to that no less.
Signed,
Andrew (Weeks)
Normal Thoughts 