Living Without (2011)
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Recently I was talking to this guy who told me how years ago, because of a medical condition, he had to give up beer. He had only been a casual beer drinker before this. He'd never really given beer much thought. But now that he couldn't have a beer, he was thinking of beer all the time.
He had a fantasy that went like this. He goes into a bar and he orders a beer. That was the whole thing. It's hard giving things up.
Walter was three, and it was time for him to give up the pacifier. The pacifier was impairing his speech, and so it was time to give it up. And his mom and dad weaned him from it slowly. First, he could only use the pacifier upstairs. Then only upstairs in his room. Then only upstairs in his room, in the bed, though enforcement on the whole bed thing was actually kind of spotty.
Anyway, finally came the big day. Walter announced he was ready to get rid of the pacifier, and he threw it into the trash himself. And everybody clapped, and everybody hugged him, and then they drove to a toy store and they got him some special presents. A toy tree house, a teddy bear.
And that first night, when it was time to sleep, Walter was brave. He was stoic. He went right to bed. And maybe-- I don't know-- five minutes passed before he was out of the bedroom and downstairs, crying. "I'm really sad," he said.
His mom and dad asked him if he wanted to play with his new toys for a while. And he tried that and then went back to bed. More sobbing. An hour passes. Two hours.
It breaks his parents' hearts. Frankly, if they still had had the pacifier in the house, they would have caved and given it to him, it was so upsetting. But he had thrown it into the trash at his grandparents' house. It was gone. And that night, for the first time in his life, Walter slept in his parents' bed. It was the only way that he could actually get to sleep.
The next night was a little easier. The next a little easier than that.
Anyway, after a couple of days, Walter announced the special request that he had for all the grown-ups in his life. Grandmas and grandpas, uncles and aunts, the lady next door. He wanted to hear their stories about when they gave up their pacifiers.
I told this to a friend of mine who gave up drinking a decade ago, how this little boy, Walter, wanted to hear these stories. And she said, man, that's just like AA. Though the problem for Walter, of course, was that no adult really remembers giving up their own pacifier. It's just too long ago, right?
So everybody either talked about giving up other stuff that they did remember, like giving up their blankets as little kids. One auntie offered to talk to him about how she quit smoking. But she was warned off that. Or they just made up stories, dramatic stories about giving up their pacifiers to tell Walter.
It's comforting to hear other people's stories of kicking the habit. It's just comforting at any age. It makes it feel like it's possible. And so this week, we bring you four stories of people giving things up, living without, some of them voluntarily, some not.
From WBEZ Chicago, it's This American Life, distributed by Public Radio International. I'm Ira Glass. Act One of our program today, Do You Hear What I Hear? In that act, one man, one teenage daughter, and many, many fish. Act Two, Yerrrrr Out! The baseball story that no baseball player wants to tell. Act Three, The Call of the Great Indoors, in which we hear a defense of living inside from somebody who can speak authoritatively about the pros and cons. Act Four, Tin Man. In that act, life without a heart. Stay with us.
Act One. Do You Hear What I Hear?
You know, I didn't talk about it for a long time, because it's so abstract. It's like people can't imagine it.
But then I'll be in a restaurant. There's a loud din of people talking and dishes, and all that stuff going on in a restaurant. And somebody will ask me, how loud is it right now? And I'll often say, it's the loudest thing in the room. And people can't-- it's just incomprehensible to people that you could get used to a tone like that in your head all the time. See, like, I'm talking about it right now? It's really loud.
The very first doctor I saw was this young ear, nose, and throat guy. And he examined me. But he was examining me as if he were just going through the motions. He already knew what he was going to tell me. So after all the examinations, he said, well, you have tinnitus, and there's no cure for it. You're just going to have to learn to live with it.
And I thought, what are you talking about? I can't learn to live with this. And I went through 10 years of five other doctors, going to the high priests in Boston hospitals, to every alternative-- psychics-- you can possibly imagine. I mean, there's almost-- I don't think there's anything-- four or five different acupuncturists-- this one dentist said, well, I'm going to make you a mouth guard. He said, well, I'm sure this will work. It's going to cost $19,000. I did some muscle body work and some homeopathic remedies-- I had my entire jaw realigned by a dentist over a two year period. And then we had things like this guy come in who spread these Petri dishes all over our house. So we had to install all these filtering systems in our house, and fans, and air cleaners, and dehumidifiers-- so I've spent, probably over 10 years, $7,000.
I'm a photographer, and the first tone appeared around the same time that I started working on this book about musicians called Where Music Comes From. And I travelled around the world with 25 different musicians. And all of a sudden, I had to stop. First tone appeared at the beginning of the project, and then the second tone came, and the whole thing got so bad that my career just came to a stop. I just couldn't travel. I was completely disabled by these tones.
I'm going to try on the piano. I think what I have on my right ear is a D flat. And in my left ear, a C, one octave lower. The right ear is a D flat, and the left ear is a C.
The most maddening part of this was when I was with this friend of mine, this jazz musician. And I described it to him. And he threw his head down in his hands on the table. We were having lunch. And I could see in him that he completely understood how maddening it was. Because he understood that the D flat was always trying to resolve itself into the C.
So can you play both of them at the same time?
I might be able to. Let's see. Let me try this for a second.
[INCREASINGLY LOUD TONE]
Test. OK, what were you saying?
That well, as we've been doing this piece, I've been thinking. It must-- I couldn't imagine having a tone in my ear-- especially like a pure tone-- tones that don't stop like that. So I can not even imagine what it must be like to have it all the time.
So what is it about having the tone?
Like you're trapped inside your own head. You're in a room with no doors and no windows, and just a speaker of that sound driving you literally up the walls. I swear, I would cut my head off or something. I'd follow van Gogh's path and cut my ears off.
Is this is an odd thing to say, you think? I'm somewhat grateful for the tone. Of course, I don't feel grateful on bad days. But you know, before you were born, I used to travel constantly on assignment, all over the world. And on good days, when I think about it, I think about the tone being a warning that I needed to slow down. And then you were born, and I thought, not only did I need to slow down, but I wanted to slow down.
And on bad days, I feel like, oh, OK, I've learned this lesson. I've slowed down. Now the tone can go away. But it doesn't go away.
I'm reading through this outline of all the tapes that we have. And you say, I could not imagine losing my hearing. And I was like, well, wait a minute. It's not that bad. And then I realize it's sort of the reverse. I haven't really lived with perfect hearing ever, so I can't compare. But I just thought it was interesting that you couldn't imagine losing your hearing, and I could not imagine having tinnitus.
Do you remember when you got your hearing aid?
Do you want to hear what happened?
I mean, because for Mom and I, it was like a huge event. Because you'd gone through all of the tests. And we had discovered that you indeed had a hearing loss, and that they were going to fit you with a hearing aid. And before that, you kept saying "what" all the time. And there were certain words that you couldn't pronounce, or certain sounds that you obviously were missing. And that's what the audiologist and the doctors described to us.
So we went down to Beverly Hospital. And Mom and I were sitting in the room. And she put the hearing aid in your ear, and turned it on, and made all the adjustments. And then you slid off the chair and said, "Oh my god! I can hear."
But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to hear everything perfectly. You know? Like to have that entire sound, every, like, aspect of someone's voice. Or music. Every note, to hear every single one. Would be incredible to me. And I don't know what that would be like. I've never known what that would be like.
Let's just talk about-- you transcribed my hearing test, where you got to actually hear the sound that's in my ear?
I can't hear one of the tones that you hear.
So you didn't hear the tone in my right ear?
No. I couldn't hear the high one. Because I'm missing that in my-- that's part of my hearing loss. I'm missing that particular frequency in both my ears.
So you can't hear the sound--
I can't hear the sound that you hear all the time.
That's incredible, don't you think?
I know. It's too much of a coincidence.
I can't be in quiet places. It can be really maddening to be in quiet places. It's the thing, though, that I think is responsible for me taking up fly fishing, because it's the closest I can get to quiet. You know, I'm out there, it's early morning, it's dark. I'm in my boat. I push off into the current. Don't start the engine. The river is waking up, and there are little sounds of birds and stuff going on.
And then there's me with my fly line, going back and forth and back and forth. And I'm focusing on the fly line, trying to get it out 100 feet. And there is a sound that it makes that I can sort of attach to. And so I'm really focused on that, and it takes me away from the sound in my head. And that's what quiet is to me. That's the most quiet that I can have.
Anything else you want to say about it?
Just that I think maybe it's taught you patience. Because I didn't know you before you had this, so I wouldn't know. But I would think that it might have taught you something about settling or acceptance. Because I remember you told us this story about how you went to all these doctors. But the first doctor you went to told you there's no cure. You couldn't do anything. And so you spent tons of money seeing a whole bunch of other doctors, who tried a whole bunch of other things. And finally, you just realized that the first doctor was right. And I guess that was probably your acceptance part of it.
And it's also that you were working so frantically before, and then you got tinnitus, and you had to stop. And I got more of you. Because I do you remember you traveling a lot. And I remember how much you were gone. And I remember asking Mom when you'd come home. But then you came, and you stayed home, and you played with me, and you took me to school every day. And I think that was really good for the family.
Nubar and Abby Alexanian. They put together that story with Jay Allison for the website Transom.org. If you want to learn how to put together a radio story, they explain how to do it at Transom.org. This story got funding from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting.
Act Two. Yerrrrr Out!
Act Two, Yerrrrr Out! At first you don't really think about it, Bobby says. He got drafted to play professional baseball for the Cubs, was sent to the minor leagues, like most players are. And for the first two years, he says, you don't wonder if you're going to make it. You know you're going to make it. For one thing, the evidence is everywhere.
You see it all the time. You're in double A, or even in A ball, and somebody does get the call. We had a shortstop when I was with the Reds. His name was Travis Dawkins. His nickname was Gookie Dawkins. And Barry Larkin got hurt in the big leagues. And the phone call came in to the manager's office. And the buzz-- all of a sudden, this buzz started taking over the clubhouse. And it was about Gookie. Gookie is going to the show. And I remember him cleaning out his locker, getting ready to get on the next flight to Cincinnati.
So he's your buddy. And you're watching him clean out his locker to go.
Yeah. And that has happened quite a bit. Quite a bit.
By his third year, out of the 52 guys Bobby was drafted with, only 15 were still playing ball. In his fourth year he was traded. By his seventh year, he was sitting on the bench a lot. And then he broke his wrist, had a hard time finding a team who would pick him up.
And I think I was pretty rusty. And I was pretty discouraged. I really thought that the time might be sooner than later than I was out of the game. There were quite a bit of people that said, is this it? Can you go back? And the questions started coming, and more regularly as I continued to play.
How would people say it? Were they sheepish about it, or they just didn't even know to be sheepish about it?
I wish they were sheepish about it, frankly. It's frustrating when people would ask-- I was always very uncomfortable when people would ask me those type of questions.
But then his season improved. He actually went on a kind of streak.
I had a few games in particular where I thought, I can do this. I'm a major league ballplayer. I can swing a baseball bat with anybody who plays the game. I had one game in particular, I think I was four for five, and hit two home runs, and knocked in seven runs. And when you get on those hot streaks, those are times when you really think, I'm right there. You know? Somebody goes down. They need a good left-handed hitter off the bench. I've got a phone call tomorrow.
And that's what keeps somebody going in this situation. There had always been so much proof, you know? He had been a high school star, an all-state, and a college star, and all Big Ten. And his brother, Hal Morris, was playing for the Reds. And it's like what happens in a casino. You win enough of the time to keep you going, to keep you in the game. It feels like the big win is right around the corner.
What got Bobby to finally quit was that that vision of his future was replaced with a different vision of who he might become. At the beginning of his 10th year, he couldn't get onto an affiliated team. He went to the independent leagues, a step down. And when he showed up for spring training and looked around at the other guys, he thought to himself, he was seeing a lot of guys who had hung on for too long. And he wondered if that's who he was becoming.
And during one of their very first practice games, he suddenly found he'd decided.
My last at bat. I know I got three at bats. I ground it out to second base, and I did know. I knew that was it. Certainly. I think the moment the ball was off my bat, I had a thought that this might be the last one. And I ran by. The throw beat me by a couple of steps. And I kept running as far as I can through the bag. And I just kind of kept going out to the outfield a little bit.
I remember thinking after, as I'm decelerating down the baseline, just thinking, well, if this is my last one, it's kind of apropos, because I gave it everything I had. I ran down to first with everything I had. And it just wasn't enough to get me there in time.
For years, he had been wrestling with his decision. And then it was done. He went to the batting cage, he hit for a while, and then he told his coaches.
What was it like for you after you decided?
It was very difficult. I would say that there was a prolonged grieving process. It was tough. For years, I still wanted to tell people-- when they asked, what do you do-- I'd say, I'm a baseball player. That was just how I identified myself. And when all that was done, when that final realization was there, it was like the amputated leg. I still felt it afterwards for a long time.
Were you able to watch baseball?
No. I wouldn't watch any baseball for a good year and a half after I left. I didn't watch any in 2002. And frankly, I don't think I watched any in 2003. I went back, and my dad still liked to watch baseball. And we'd put the Cubs game on. And after about a half an inning or an inning, I'd see a lot of guys I played with or played against. And I stopped. Go downstairs and do something else.
It was very difficult. You see these players. You want to play the if game and the if-then. And this guy is not as good as I am, and why is he there? Now, I'm absolutely fine with it. But for years, I didn't want anything to do with baseball.
See, I think one of the things that would be hard in your situation is if you have this dream and this identity that's driving you for so long, and from such a young age, it's sort of like you can't replace something with nothing. You've got to replace something with something else.
Absolutely. You know, I'm a commodities trader. And one of the things I love about what I do is the day in, day out process is the same. You fall into routines. You get up early. I watch Bloomberg every morning for 15 minutes before I go take a shower. And then I've got a routine that I read the newspaper on the way to the office. When I'm in the office, I prepare for the day in the same way. And then it's another highly competitive, dog-eat-dog world. And I like that.
And also you know when you've won. You know when you've lost. There is a tally at the end of the day. You have your stats.
Absolutely. Absolutely. And I just am able to have that same tunnel vision like I did when I played. Guys are always amazed that when I first got into the trading business, I would come in at 2:00 in the morning when the European markets closed. And I would sometimes trade until 3:00, 4:00 in the afternoon. I'd sit down there for 14 straight hours and trade.
I love the concentration. I love having to focus and having to be on top of your game every day. Because I had to do something like that. I had to do something where there were stakes at hand, and that there was winning and there was losing.
Bobby Morris. He and I recorded that interview back in 2005. He spent another few years after that as a full-time commodities trader in Chicago. Then in 2007, he left the city and moved back to his home state of Indiana. He still works as a trader part-time. But a few years ago, Bobby went back to baseball, this time in a new way, working with kids. He's a teacher at the White Sox Youth Academy and a coach for competitive travel teams. Focusing on the young players, he says, on helping them improve, watching them improve, helped him remember what he loved about baseball in the first place. He says he's enjoying the game for the first time in years.
Act Three. The Call Of The Great Indoors.
Act Three, The Call of the Great Indoors. There are some kinds of living without that is really hard for most of us to fathom. In Boston, Chelsea Merz has been talking with somebody about one of those.
The first thing I noticed about Matthew were his fingernails. They're so clean, much cleaner than mine. And I am humbled. I have no excuse. Unlike Matthew, I have not been living on the streets for seven years.
Every Saturday, we meet for lunch at Bertucci's, which is this family style Italian restaurant. Every week we sit at the same table. And every time, our waitress assures us that we've made it in time for the lunch special. We will get free refills on soft drinks, a complimentary garden salad, and a basket of rolls.
One time, Matthew showed up 20 minutes late. And the manager was giving him a hard time. He was saying, you better make it up to her and buy lunch today. And when we got to our table, Matthew was laughing. And he said, he doesn't know I'm homeless. He has no idea.
And even though Matthew is carrying a large cardboard box, a messenger bag, and two bookbags, he looks more like a college professor. He's clean. He's tidy. He's organized. He is incredibly polite. Every week Matthew tells these stories. So every week I record him.
There was this time. It rained nonstop. And when that happens, the shelters just fill up. And there were like 10 of us waiting for two hours. Eventually people start talking. Oh, where were you yesterday, when it started raining? Oh, I was over here. Did you get in somewhere last night? No, I was outside. Or I went under a bridge.
So everybody's talking about these things. And one guy in the room was very quiet. Someone started talking to him. What did you do? What did you do yesterday? He has this very thick Spanish accent and doesn't speak English very well. He told us he didn't know Boston at all. He had just arrived from New York. He didn't know the streets. He didn't know where to go.
And when it came time-- what about you? Where did you stay? "Alley." The alley? Oh, just the next block? "Yeah, one block. One block." You only got as far as one block, and then you went into the alley. "Si, si." Oh, wow. So where did you sleep in the alley? Was there any place you could sleep underneath or something? He said something like "box."
Box? You slept in a box? "Si, si." Well, a cardboard box? Wouldn't it be soaking wet? "Not cardboard. Metal." Metal? You slept in a metal box? And someone said, oh, a dumpster. You slept in a dumpster. "No, no."
Did you get any sleep? "No, no. No sleep. I was afraid." Afraid? You were afraid. "Si, si." What were you afraid of, that somebody might come and beat you up, mug you? "No, no. Button." Button?
And all of a sudden, it occurred to me. And I just said, oh. You didn't sleep in a dumpster. You slept in a trash compacter. "Si, si." You were afraid somebody was going to come and maybe push a button. "Si, si."
And when I heard that, I was like at a new level in my feelings and understanding of this whole thing. You're afraid somebody might come to push the button, and you'll die a horrible death.
Once or twice a year, he gets to housesit for an old friend. Around Christmas, he got an offer to housesit for more than two weeks. I met him for lunch the day that ended, and he was back on the street. I wanted to know what it was for him to have a comfortable place to sleep for a change. Usually, he can't count on any of his regular spots. And sometimes he has to stay up all night in a Kinko's or a Dunkin' Donuts.
Sleep is such a large part of the whole experience of being homeless. I should say sleeplessness. You never get enough sleep. You're so tired so much of the time.
So what was it like your first night indoors? What was it like to sleep?
The first night is the best, because you know you've got 16 consecutive nights of uninterrupted living indoors again. Of being able to come over to this apartment, open the door, unlock it with the key, open the door, go over to the sofa-- this nice, huge, comfortable, soft sofa with like eight large pillows. In front of the TV set, with a remote control and everything.
It's like what Jean Valjean experienced in the 1935 version of the film Les Miserables with Fredric March as Jean Valjean. After all those years in the prison, the galley slave prison system, whatever, he's released finally. I think it was 14 years, or something, in which he was sleeping on hard surfaces. And when he is finally shown the room where he's going to get to stay, when it's time for him to go to sleep, he looks at the bed.
And in the years before I was homeless, whenever I'd see this film, I never noticed this. He's looking at the bed. That bed, it's like it's a soft surface, a soft mattress. It's a bed. He hasn't slept in a bed for like 14 years. And when he plops down in it, he leans back. He stretches out. If I remember correctly, his eyes close, as he's savoring the comfort.
That's what it's like. That's what it feels like. That's what it felt like the first night I was in there, for these 16 nights in a row.
This is an excerpt from a radio project that Chelsea Merz and Matthew have worked on for years. When we first broadcast that story in 2004, Matthew had been on the street for seven years. He has now gotten off the streets, and gives talks around the country about his experience. You can find more at his website, openchurches.org.
Coming up. Which is more dangerous to your health, heart disease or your own family? Answers in a minute from Chicago Public Radio and Public Radio International when our program continues.
Act Four. Tin Man.
It's This American Life. I'm Ira Glass. Each week on our program, of course, we choose some theme, bring you a variety of different kinds of stories on that theme. Today's program, two weeks into the new year, stories of giving things up, living without, voluntarily or not.
We have arrived at Act Four of our program. Act Four, Tin Man. Sometimes you give up something and you're not sure if it's your own idea or not. As in this next story, a short story by Judy Budnitz, read for us by actor Matt Malloy.
"What kind of son are you?" asks Aunt Fran. Aunt Nina says, "Your own flesh and blood." "What your mother wouldn't do for you," Aunt Fran goes on. "She'd do anything for you. Anything in the world. And now you won't give just a little back." "For shame!" says Aunt Nina. The heat is stifling, but she pulls her sweater closer.
We're sitting in the hospital waiting room, Aunt Fran and Aunt Nina and I. My mother suffered a heart attack this morning. We're waiting to see her, the aunts and I.
The doctor told us her heart won't last much longer. "We can't fix it," the doctors said. "She needs a new one. A transplant." "Well, then give her one!" the aunts cried. "It's not that easy," said the doctors. "We need a donor."
The doctors went away. The aunts looked at me. "Arnie?" Nina said. "What about your heart?"
"My heart?" I shouted. "Are you crazy?"
That started them both off on what a bad son I was. It's impossible to argue with Nina, especially with Fran to back her up. I sit in the middle. Aunt Fran clutches one arm, Aunt Nina the other. They wept at first, but now they sit grimly.
A Styrofoam cup of coffee steams next to my foot, but I can't reach for it. The aunts don't care. They're amazed that I bought it, amazed that I could even think of coffee at a time like this.
Aunt Fran wears a bally sweater and sensible shoes. Her lips are pressed tight. She taps her feet nervously. On my other side, Nina licks her lips, again and again.
"I saw it on 60 Minutes," Aunt Fran announces. "They put the heart in a cooler, a regular Igloo cooler, like we have at home. And they rush it in a helicopter to the hospital. And they put it in, connect up the pipes. It's just like plumbing."
"You must be your mother's tissue type, too. I'm sure you are," Aunt Nina puts in. "You're young. You're strong. You have a college education. Your heart is exactly what she needs." "You shouldn't have started smoking, though," Aunt Fran goes on. "It's so bad for the heart. You should have thought of that when you started."
"But what about me?" I blurt out finally. "That's what we're talking about. We're talking about your heart," Nina says. "But what happens to me?" I say again. "I can't believe he's thinking of himself at a time like this," Aunt Fran sniffs. "I need my heart. You want me to die so my mother can live?"
"Of course we don't want that," says Aunt Fran. "Sylvie loves you so much. She'd want to die herself if you died." "We can't both have my heart," I say.
"Of course not," says Nina. "You can get one of those monkey hearts, or that artificial heart they made such a fuss about in the news a while back." "Why can't mother get one of those? Or a transplant from someone else?"
"Do you want your mother should have a stranger's heart? Or a monkey's heart? Your poor mother. Do you remember how she never used to take you to the zoo because she couldn't stand to see the filthy monkeys? And you want her to have a monkey's heart? It would kill her." Fran cries.
"She's so weak. She needs a heart that will agree with her," Aunt Nina adds. "Any heart but yours just wouldn't do. But you, you can handle anything. You're young. You're strong. You--"
"Have a college education?" I finished for her.
Aunt Nina glares and says, "Your mother worked herself to the bone for you so you could go to college and make something of yourself. And now what do you do? Out of college four years already, all you do is sit in front of a typewriter all day, call yourself a writer. Smoking those cigarettes, never get a haircut."
"And the first time your mother needs you," Aunt Fran finishes, "you turn your back on her." They both tighten their grips on my arm.
"I do things for Mother all the time," I begin. One of the doctors appears at the end of the hall. As he approaches, my aunts rise, pulling me with them. "Is she all right?" demands Fran, when he's still 20 feet away. "We've found a donor," Nina announces.
The doctor greets us. He's a small man, completely bald. The eyes behind thick glasses are sad. He strokes his scalp as he talks, savoring the feel of it. "She's all right. She's being monitored," he says. "We will look for a donor, but there's a long waiting list."
"We've got a donor. Sylvie's son. He's in the prime of health," Aunt Nina says. "This is Arnie," Fran explains.
The doctor studies me carefully. "Surely you don't do that sort of thing?" I say incredulously. He gazes at me. "It's very rare, very rare indeed that a son will be so good as to donate his heart. In a few cases, it has been done. But it's so rare to find such a son, a rare and beautiful thing."
He takes off his glasses and polishes them on his sleeve. Without them, his eyes are small, piggish. He puts them back on, and his eyes are sad and soulful once more. "You must love your mother very much," he says. "Oh, he does," Fran says. I shift my feet and knock over the cup of coffee and it spills on the floor, a sudden ugly brownness spreading over the empty white.
A nurse leads us to the intensive care unit, where my mother is lying attached to machines and bags of fluid. Aunt Fran rushes to one side of the bed, Aunt Nina the other. I shuffle awkwardly at the foot of the bed. I touch my mother's feet.
"Sylvie, are you all right?" The aunts cry. My mother opens her eyes. There are purple circles around them. She looks pale, but not so different from usual. Hardly on the verge of death. She smiles dully at her sisters. "Oh, Sylvie. You look wonderful, just the same," they say.
Then she raises her eyes to me. "Oh, Arnie. You look terrible," she says. "That jacket. I told you to throw it away. I'll find you another. There's no reason to go around looking like a mess."
"Arnie has some good news," Nina says. "Then why does he look like a thundercloud?" says my mother. "Arnie, is something bothering you?"
Fran says, "Arnie wants to give you his heart." "I never said that," I cry. There is a pause.
"Of course, Arnie, you shouldn't. You don't need to do that for me. Really, you don't," my mother says. She looks terribly sad. The aunts' faces have gone stony. "I never expected anything from you, you know. Of course, nothing like this."
I look down at her feet, two motionless humps under the blanket. "I'm considering it, Mother. Really, I am. I want to find out more about it before I decide. That's all. It's not as simple as changing a car battery or something." I force out a laugh.
No one else laughs, but the aunts' faces melt a little. My heart is is pounding. My mother closes her eyes. "You're a good boy, Arnie," she says. "Your father would be proud."
A nurse comes in and tells us that we should let my mother rest for a while. Aunt Fran and Aunt Nina head back to the waiting room. I walk up and down the halls of dull white where patients shuffle in slow motion, wheeling their IVs along beside them. I can feel in the floor the buzzing vibration of motors churning away somewhere in the heart of the building. I take the elevator and wander until I find a pay phone.
I call up Mandy. She picks up on the first ring. "Hi," she says. "Where have you been?"
"My mother had a heart attack this morning," I say. "I'm at the hospital."
"Oh, I knew this would happen," Mandy says. "I burned my hand on the radiator this morning, and right away I thought, uh oh, an omen. Something bad's going to happen. How old's your mother?"
"57," I say.
"Oh, that's young for a heart attack. And she wasn't fat or anything. I feel like it's my fault. I should have warned you or something."
Finally, I ask her to come to the hospital. And she says all right and hangs up. I don't need to tell her where to go. Mandy never gets lost. She never has to wait in line. Strangers on the street talk to her. Jobs fall in her lap. She's nice looking, freckles on her nose, good straight teeth. She keeps telling me that my signs indicate my life will be on a big upswing soon, and that I'm just in a transition period right now. I hope she's right.
I finally reach the lobby, and just as I do, Mandy comes bursting in the doors, beaming at me. She doesn't smile. She beams. "I knew I'd find you," she says. "How's your mother? Have you seen her?" Her breath in my face is like pine trees and toothpaste.
"Yes, she's all right for now. Come on. Let's go outside for a minute. I want to ask you something."
Outside, the afternoon is darkening to early evening. We wander in the parking lot among the cars, talking softly like we're afraid we'll wake them. It's cold. I keep looking back to see if anyone is following us.
"They say my mother's heart is bad," I tell Mandy. "She needs a new one. They want me to donate my heart. What do you think of that?"
Mandy stops, her eyes and mouth open. Wind whips her frizzy hair around her face. She looks shocked. I breathe a sigh of relief. At last, someone who can see reason.
But then she says, "Oh, Arnie. How wonderful. Can they really do that? That's so wonderful. Congratulations!"
"You mean you think I should do it?"
"Isn't technology incredible?" Mandy says. "These days doctors can do anything. Now you can share yourself, really give yourself to someone in ways you never even thought were possible before. Your mother must be thrilled."
"But it's crazy," I say.
She takes my hand in hers and looks up into my eyes. "Frankly, Arnie, I didn't think you had it in you. I'm really impressed. Really I am."
"Mandy, I thought you could be realistic about this. What about me? Do you want me dead? What am I supposed to do without a heart?"
"Oh, I'm sure they could fix you up. The important thing right now is to help your mother." She unzips my jacket and presses her hand against my chest. My heart twitches, flutters like a baby bird in her hands. "Arnie, you know what the right thing to do is. You should get back to your mother now." I watch her go, brisk, determined steps, like a schoolteacher.
I find my way back to the waiting room. Someone has mopped up the coffee. "Feel better?" Nina asks. "Made a decision yet?" Fran says.
"Yes. No. I don't know," I say. They are both quiet. Fran turns to me. "Arnie, think about this. The heart's a little thing, really. Less than a pound. It's just a muscle. You've got muscles all over the place. Can't you spare one?" She looks earnestly into my face. "Can't you spare a little bit of flesh?" And then they are crying, both of them, drops sliding down the wrinkles in their faces.
Later we go visit my mother again. She looks worse, but perhaps it's the fluorescent lights. I stand again at the foot of her bed. I can see the veins and tendons on her neck. So delicate, so close to the surface you could snip them with scissors.
"Arnie," she says softly, "you should go home and get some sleep. And shave. You look terrible. So tired. Go. I'll be here tomorrow. I'm not going anywhere."
I drive home in the dark. I go up to my apartment and turn on the lights. I want to call Mandy. Then I realize I don't want to call her at all. Usually my mother calls in the evening and tells me about TV programs and weather changes.
I turn off the lights and sit in the dark. I look at the ceiling, at the smoke detector. It has a blue light that pulses with a regular beat, like the blip on a cardiograph.
Early the next morning at the hospital, I tell the doctor, "I want to do it. Give her my heart." He gives me a long, steady look, eyes huge behind the glasses. "I think you've made the right decision. I do," he says. His eyes drop to my chest. "We can get started right away."
"But what about a transplant for me?" I say. "Don't you need to arrange that first?"
"Oh, we'll take care of that when the time comes. I want to get your heart into your mother right away before, before--"
"Before I change my mind?" I say. He hardly hears. He's already deep in his plans. He claps me on the back. "Have you told your mother yet? Well, go tell her. And then we'll get your chest shaved and get started."
This is what I have realized. All along, I thought I'd publish a book, lots of books. Get recognition. Earn lots of money. Support my mother in style in her old age. Give her gorgeous grandchildren. I thought that was the way to pay her back for everything I owe her.
But now it looks like I have to pay my debts with my heart instead. Under these circumstances, I don't have a choice. I'm almost glad. It seems easier this way. I'll just give her a piece of muscle, and then I'll be free of her forever. All my debts paid. One quick operation will be so much easier than struggling for the rest of my life to do back to her all the things she thinks she's done for me. It seems like a good bargain.
When I tell my mother the news, she cries a little, and smiles, and says, "Oh, I didn't expect it. Oh, not for a minute. I wouldn't expect such a sacrifice from you, Arnie. I wouldn't dare to even mention such a thing. It's more than any mother could expect of her son. I'm so proud of you. I guess I did a good job of raising you after all. You've turned into such fine, good person. I worried that I may have made mistakes when I was bringing you up. But now I know I didn't."
On and on she goes. And the aunts, they cry, clutch my arms, not so tight as before. And they say they'd doubted me, but they never will again. "What a good son," they keep saying. Looking at them now, they seem smaller than they did before. Shriveled.
I call Mandy and she dashes over to the hospital. She kisses all over my face with her cherry-flavored ChapStick. She hugs me, presses her ear against my chest. She tells me she knew I'd do the right thing.
I'm feeling pretty good now. I light up a cigarette. She takes it away from me and mashes it beneath her heel. "That belongs to your mother now," she says.
They all give me flowers. I feel like a hero. I kiss my mother's cheek. I hop on a stretcher. They wheel me out. They sedate me slightly, strip me, shave me. And then they put the mask on and knock me out good.
It's like I'm falling, falling down a deep well. And the circle of daylight above me grows smaller and smaller and smaller until it is a tiny white bird, swooping and fluttering against a vast night sky.
How does it feel to have no heart? It feels light, hollow, rattly. Something huge is missing. It leaves an ache, like the ghost of a severed limb. I'm so light inside but so heavy on the outside. Like gravity increased a hundredfold, gravity holding me to the bed like the ropes and pegs of a thousand Lilliputians.
I lie at the bottom of a pool. Up above I see the light on the surface. It wavers, ripples, breaks, and comes together again. I can see the people moving about, far above in the light. I am down here in the dark, cradled in the algae. Curious fish nibble my eyelashes.
After a while, I see a smooth, pink face above me. The doctor? "Arnie," he says. "The operation went very well. Your mother is doing wonderfully. She loves the new heart."
His words begin far away and drift closer, growing louder and louder until they plunk down next to me like pebbles. "Arnie," he calls. The pool's surface shivers. His face balloons, shrinks to a dot, then unfolds itself. "Arnie, about you. We're having a little trouble. There is a shortage of spare hearts in the country right now. We're looking for some kind of replacement. But don't worry. You'll be fine."
Later, I see Aunt Fran and Aunt Nina. They lean close. They're huge. Their faces bleed and run together like wet watercolors. "Your mother's doing so well," they call. "She loves you. Oh, she's so excited. She'll be in to see you soon."
And later it's my mother gliding in, her face pink, her hair curled. "Arnie, Arnie, you good boy," she calls. And then they wheel her out.
They leave me alone for a long time. I lie in the deep. It sways me like a hammock. There is a deep, low humming all around, like whales moaning. My mother does not visit again.
Alone in the dark, no footsteps, no click of the light switch. Then a doctor looms above me. "Your mother," he says, "is not doing well. The heart does not fit as well as we thought. It's a bit too small." He turns away and leans over again. "As for you, we're working on it. There is nothing available at the moment, but don't you worry."
And then Fran and Nina are back. "How could you?" they scream, their voices shattering the surface into fragments. "Giving your mother a bad heart. How could you? What kind of son are you? She's dying. Your mother's dying, all because of you." They weep together.
For a long time, no one comes. I know without anyone telling me that my mother is dead. It is my heart. When it ceases to beat, I know.
The doctor comes to tell me how sorry he is. "She was doing so well at first. But then it turned out the heart just wasn't enough. I tell you, though, she was thinking of you when she died. She asked for you." He sits quietly for a moment.
"We haven't managed to find a heart for you, but you'll be fine. We've shot you up full of preservatives. You'll stay fresh for a while yet." He goes away.
Aunt Fran and Aunt Nina no longer visit. Mandy? Gone. I lie, listening to the emptiness in my chest, like wind wailing through canyons.
These days the doctor comes in often to chat with me. One day he tells me a story. "You know, when your mother died, we managed to save your heart. It was still healthy. We thought about giving it back to you, but there was this little girl here, about eight years old. She needed a new heart too. Cute little blond girl. One time a basketball star came in here to visit, and there were TV cameras and photographers and everything. She was in the papers a lot. Kids were always sending her cards.
"Anyway, we decided to give her your heart. She's only a kid, after all. She's got her whole life ahead of her. Why should we deny her that? I'm sure your mother would have wanted it that way. She was such a caring, selfless woman. I'm sure, deep down, you want her to have it too, don't you?"
Of course I do.
Judy Budnitz's short story "Guilt," from her collection of short stories called Flying Leap. Her latest book is Nice Big American Baby. Her story was read by actor Matt Malloy, who is in way too many movies to name here, but is available for your casting needs.
Chelsea Merz's story with Matthew came to us with help from Jay Allison and the Cape and Island NPR stations with support from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting.
Our web site, where you can hear any of our programs for absolutely free, thisamericanlife.org.
WBEZ management oversight for our show by our boss, Mr. Torey Malatia. Our message to him today?
We've shot you up full of preservatives. You'll stay fresh for a while yet.
I'm Ira Glass. Back next week with more stories of This American Life.
PRI. Public Radio International.