Be Mine

by Richard Ford

Paul doesn’t, in fact, think of himself as a patient, a sufferer or a living statistic, but as an amateur “scientist” objectifying a defective body that happens to be his—all for the benefit of unnamed others. Like a car that’s broken but can still be driven. More than once he’s observed to me he was “surprised” it was taking him this long to die. Though statistically it’s not. I have so far not observed him to exhibit much fear of death’s approach. He seems more intrigued than concerned. (I, in fact, envy the peerlessness of his experience without envying the experience, itself.) Occasionally he expresses misgivings about suffering—what I most fear for him. Though sometimes I think that my son enduring an extravagantly fatal disease has not so much to do with death (unusual man that he is) but with seizing an opportunity to perform a difficult trick extremely well—a magic trick—that can only be performed once. Someone who did not know him might say he was coming to grips with life by preparing for a good death, as the Buddhists say: the white and red essences meeting at the heart. But I can say with certainty that he is all about a good life and not one jot about a good death (whatever that could be). In my solitary-silent moments, I do not cherish the thought that my son’s fatal disease may be one of his life’s high points, and sometimes ask myself: Have his forty-seven breathing years added up to enough of life? I know the standard answer. Though my heart’s answer is (s...