I believe that I have a frailty common to all of my species. My mind doesn't have the capacity to comprehend the term eternal. Oh, I know the definition of the word, but I can't seem to rationalize the concept in my very limited realm of intelligence. For me, everything must have a beginning and yes, an end.
Even those of religious persuasions read the good book and discuss the beginning of everything around us. However, I can't help but wonder about the time before and the beginning of that creator who spent several days making all that we now know.
I truly wish I could understand the concept, endless, "senza fine" as Italian speaking folks say. That understanding would allow me to believe those who have passed before me will live forever and I just might have a chance to join them. Maybe, and just maybe, the love I have received will go to that place with me.
I recently discovered that I had fallen into a state of disrepair. It appeared that my brain had slightly shifted to one side of my skull thus causing some bleeding. The term subdural hematoma was used although at the time of the diagnosis my memory was less than adequate and the headaches that first brought me to the doctor's office were, to say the very least, annoying.
With the lack of a memory, I now find that a surgical procedure was performed on me which involved puncturing -- drilling -- three holes in my skull and removing fluid trapped there in the hope that my brain might move back to its preferred position.
I don't recall hearing the diagnosis or any discussions regarding the operation, so all this information I now impart to you is purely hearsay. I do know that at some time while I was incapacitated someone removed the hair from my head.
I then, and again this is what I was told, spent about a week in the hospital. Apparently, I carried on conversations with those around me, but I have no recollection of those discussions. I sometimes wonder if I made more or less sense when I was in that state of disrepair.
Following the stay in the hospital, I was taken to a rehabilitation center where I spent another week or so. It was near the end of that stay that my memory, at least to some degree, began to reboot. I didn't recall the events of the past several weeks, but I began to remember things that took place the day before. I realize this sounds very bizarre, but I swear it's the truth.
I learned to organize words, move small plastic cars through a maze and to the exit and I was introduced to the intricacies of pushing tennis balls from atop plastic cones. The art of walking in a straight line and up two steps was learned, and I soon became astute at recognizing the lone odd figure in a grouping of five or six pictures.
A nurse entered my room at 5:30 a.m. each morning. Once there, she pierced my skin with a sharp object and asked if I slept well. I finally, and only after several of those early morning visits, told her that I hadn't slept well because I knew she would be there before the new day's sun began to bring light to another day. She laughed and then returned to her daily schedule.
I was paroled from the rehabilitation facility after many days and the ride home was glorious. I could see, some of my memory was functioning and, all by myself and with no assistance, I could get into and out of the car.
Well, I have now been at home for ten days and, although I'm by no means back to my old self, I feel better; well, enough to share with you my story. However, I must tell you of one important and positive thing that this experience gave me, the gift of hope.
Hope lives where despair yearns to be. Hope fills the hearts of those who search for a reason to carry on when all seems to be lost, and for a time I thought all was lost. The light, that oh so brilliant yet soft glow that had lived within me for the past 72 years was dimming. I suddenly realized that I was in fact not immune to the pitfalls of growing old.
When one day bleeds into another and the darkness seems to gnaw away at our very soul, it is the hope that a better day and a better life lies just around the bend that often gives us the strength to wait -- to wait for a new day's sunlight. Who can make sense of this crazy world? For a time, we are alive then we die; but between those two events, the faith that lives deep within our hearts gives birth to the most precious commodity, hope.
The Italians use the words "senza fine." The English translation for the words is endless and although I've often thought that no thing or person can exist without end, I have come to understand that one intangible can be called senza fine. That single idea is called hope.
I've started taking short walks again and, although they are somewhat uncomfortable, some things are worth the effort and the inconvenience matters not. I hope that the distance walked will, over time, increase.
I would like to thank my dear friends for the phone calls, text messages, cards, and letters of support I've received. It is my hope that I'll remain in this world long enough to further inflict myself upon you with the continued telling of silly stories, tales as it were, for you see I have many more stories to share with you. I don't know how many stories that may be, but I like to think they are, well senza fine.
Stan Fine is a retired police officer and Verizon Security Department investigator who, after retiring in 2006, moved from Tampa, Fla., to Noel. Stan's connection to Noel can be traced back to his grandparents who lived most of their lives there. Stan began writing after the passing of his wife Robin in 2013. The opinions expressed are those of the author.