Compromise Campout #3

My yard, so close to the “civilization” of my house, is far more empty and quiet than any State Park. I forget that I live every day closer to nature than the average “outdoorsy” American experiences when they park their Subaru at a trailhead. I lit a Coleman lantern and hung it on a branch. It was a moonless night and the starlight, often so grand in my light pollution free sky, was obscured by clouds. It was pitch black. The air was warm and close and very still; a bit claustrophobic.

I tried to read the same book I haven’t completed reading for years. Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. It’s a good book but it’s not a page turner. Much of it is fairly obvious. I often read a passage and think “no shit Sherlock”. It floats around on the dash of my truck only half noticed.

When I was dating Mrs. Curmudgeon (a time so long ago that trucks had clutches) my truck’s dash had a battered and dusty copy of The Death of Ivan Illich by Tolstoy. If that wasn’t a red flag to scare her off nothing would. (I eventually waded through Tolstoy. I think some long forgotten English teacher assigned it. It wasn’t a good book.) The important part is Mrs. Curmudgeon married me, either despite or because of my bad taste in books.

I was only 100 yards from my house but the Coleman lantern might as well be the solo beacon in a planetary sea of darkness. I pondered one of the half remembered, partially read, chapters of Meditations. My man Marcus goes to great lengths ruminating over the proper Stoic way to face death. Don’t bitch. Don’t make a fuss. You always knew it was going to end.

How’d I been doing? Meh. This spring I went all out on medical shit, bludgeoning my way through layers of uncaring, unresponsive, unskilled medical bureaucracies. Accelerating timelines, bitching out labs that dragged their feet producing results, dropping one doctor for another if one of equal skill was available sooner, driving miles and staying overnight in hotels I could ill afford, to get tests and treatments now instead of “scheduled three months from next whenever”. I burned my emergency fund. What is money if not a thing to use? I refused to let the system distract me into the weeds or delay me for months. I grilled doctors about drug interactions, sought second opinions, and paid well for unpleasant tests. I did in six weeks, what the bureaucracy would’ve dragged out for eighteen months… or forever.

Did it work?

Yes.

It did work. I spent lavishly of money, time, effort, and attention but it did indeed work. I’m on the mend.

Sitting in the dark, by a tiny campfire, I measured myself according to the ethics of the most powerful human on earth of 1,800 years ago. Marcus was no bitch. He was a conqueror of worlds. He wouldn’t fold at a minor illness unless it was unavoidable. If he could do better he’d try to fix his situation. Just as I had. This in counterpoint to Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of China. That weirdo went half mad seeking the elixir of eternal life. In so doing he stained his otherwise amazing life story with a pathetic last chapter. Spoiler alert, Qin Shi Huang died just like any other mortal man.

Marcus died during a military campaign, probably in a tent, possibly of the plague. I’m sure Marcus would rather have been cleaved with a barbarian’s axe, foreshadowing some overwrought Sabaton lyric. But there’s no record he bitched about cruel fate. For that matter Teddy started off behind the eight ball physically. He worked his ass off to overcome dire health issues. That’s probably why he grew to become an absolute animal. Teddy was damn near unkillable until he died in his sleep, no muss no fuss. That Teddy wasn’t ripped in half by a grizzly isn’t because he didn’t give the grizzly a fair chance. Neither Teddy nor Marcus fretted over how, or even when, but they used now like the bosses they were.

Tough guys to follow. I’m doing my best. I haven’t gone off the deep end of hype and fashion. I’m not drinking vegan Kombucha from Whole Foods on my way to Yoga class. (Though I haven’t had a glass of bourbon in a while and I miss it.) So long as I’m cutting firewood for exercise instead of posing in spandex at the gym I think my soul is safe. I can’t camp (yet!) but that’s by my definition… which isn’t a common baseline. In a year I’ll be “adventuring” again. Sooner maybe. But I’m not in charge. Fast gains fade into slower gains. In my math-mind I say I’m approaching full recovery asymptotically.

Perhaps next September I’ll be camping in some dispersed spot that most people would call “God forsaken desolation”. I’ll once again convene a performance evaluation with Teddy and Marcus. I don’t think they’ll be too disappointed with my methods or goals.

That’s enough philosophizing for today. Stay tuned for Part 4.