THE PALE LIGHT OF SUNSET: SCATTERSHOTS AND HALLUCINATIONS IN AN IMAGINED LIFE

Lowenstein 1 - 1983

234 1983 Lowenstein 1 Time can be suspended. I know it can. I have always been fascinated by those moments when it happens. The neurologists tell us that time is not suspended at all, that during those moments we merely think it is, because our brains are processing information at many times normal speed. Science is very unromantic. I prefer to think that we suspend time, bend it to our will, hold it back against the flow, prevent it from rushing forward and completing whatever it is that we don’t want to happen . I know we can do this. I know I can do this. Now and then I can stuff time into my fist and squeeze it. I try to hold tight, but small pieces of it escape between my fingers and flash out into the passage of reality. The pieces hang there in the air, floating, shining, as I watch things unfold that I do not want to be a part of. Like now. I stand outside the door. I have never been so afraid. The Pale Light of Sunset 235 His office is in an ugly house on the east side of town. The house looks benign, a squat collection of adobe and plaster stacked together to make rooms and offices. I have no idea what waits for me inside. In his office, Lowenstein keeps the curtains drawn, the shades partially pulled down. The effect is to make any outside light force its way in, terribly diminished in the process, the room overly muted, funereal, as though Lowenstein is afraid I will see him clearly. Or that he will see me. There is a chair beside me but I do not sit. He drops a large envelope of x-ray film on the desk. “Do you want to look?” He doesn’t look at me. “If I look, will anything change?” “No,” he says. He sits behind the desk and folds his hands. I can hardly see his face. I know he cannot see my eyes. “I’ll give it a year, maybe a little more, maybe a little less. But a year’s about it.” His voice is uninflected, uninterested, as though he is discussing a problem with auto parts. He is discussing the rest of my life. “It?” “You know,” he says, “your . . . time.” “What will happen? How will it end?” “Oh, well,” he says, “nothing very special. Gradually, those particular organs will lose their ability to function. You will have certain choices at that point, of course. Transplant, perhaps. Maybe some other procedures . After all, who knows what treatments will be available in a year.” He sounds almost cheerful, as though he is giving me good news. On the corner of his desk is a small picture frame and next to it a clock with a glowing dial and I see him glance at it. I have been given my allotted time in his office. I have been given my allotted time in life. Lee Maynard 236 I feel my hands ball into fists. “No one has ever said anything as important as this to me, so casually, and in so little time, and with as little caring.” For a long moment he says nothing. He glances at the clock again. His hand goes to his hair, smoothing it. “I have a lot of patients. I do the best I can.” He clears his throat. “Thanks for dropping by,” he says. I glance down at his clock and realize that the picture frame next to it is actually a small mirror. Lowenstein has been glancing at himself. I go to the door. “Oh,” he says behind me, “you might want to schedule your next appointment with the nurse before you leave.” I open the door and light floods into his office. I stop and turn. “Doctor Lowenstein,” I say, “when will you die?” He is startled. His chair jerks backward. “When will . . . I don’t . . . I’m not the one . . . why would you ask that?” There is animation in his voice and I hear a catch in his throat. “I do the best I can,” I say. “Be sure to schedule an appointment with your nurse. You never know.” ...