Randy Kadish's Blog - Posts Tagged "cancer"

The city workers never stopped me from going onto the old, broken-down pier, though one had said, “There aren’t much fish here since we dredged last year.”

I often sought comfort in those words. They told me not to blame myself for catching only one striped bass after so many months of trying.

So with little expectations, I again walked towards the end of the seagull-inhabited pier. One by one the beautiful birds spread their long, gray wings and soared away. I was sorry I had frightened them from their home.

I continued on.

On the other side of the wide, fast-moving river, the fluttering American flag told me the wind blew from the north, but not strongly. Since strong winds were the only thing I didn’t like about fishing, I was thankful, and wondered if I should go with a floating or sinking line.

I checked the sky. The cloud cover was breaking up; so I chose a sinking line, knowing it probably wouldn’t matter. I set up my nine-weight rod, looked through my fly box and wondered, What should I try? A Clouser? A Deceiver?

I tied on a White Deceiver, then watched in awe as the seagulls gracefully glided down on the other end of the pier. Glad they had returned, I thought, If only I could get my fly to land as gently.

I cast up river, about seventy feet. Not bad. I stripped slowly, pausing every four or five seconds.

Suddenly, as if a light switch was turned on, the sun illuminated the gold and raspberry-red leaves of trees on the far bank. Yes, I remembered, autumn is always the prettiest time to fish. But soon those trees will look like eerie, mushroom-shaped spider webs. Soon it will be winter and too cold to fish. So why on this mild day, am I the only one here? Is it because, unlike most anglers, I’m not so obsessed with catching fish? If so, is there something wrong with me?

A small motor boat approached. A middle-aged couple was aboard. They held hands. I waved. They smiled and waved back.

“Any luck?” the man yelled out.

I shook my head no, and thought of how I never felt alone on the pier.

I again cast. My tight loop cut through the breeze. My Deceiver turned over and fluttered to the water. I was proud.

Eighty feet, I thought. Yes, maybe basking in the satisfaction of making a good cast is what brought me to the pier. But is there something more?

I lowered my rod, pulled all the slack out of my line and tried to repeat my beautiful cast. My back loop was tight. When it almost unrolled I slowly began my forward cast. Perfect. I accelerated into my power snap. But I hauled late. My front loop opened into a wide circle. My line and fly died short, and piled on the water. Disappointed, I quickly pulled the slack out of my line. I resumed my regular retrieve. Maybe bad casts really aren’t so bad. Maybe a fish will still strike. Besides, my next cast will be better, I hope. Yes, to make better: how good it always feels, and how easy to do when fishing. If only fixing my business had been so easy, but by the time I realized that the market had changed it was too late. And wasn’t it also too late by the time mother realized that her cough might be a sign of something really serious? By then the latest medical breakthroughs couldn’t stop her cancer from eating away at her, from leaving her a living, breathing skeleton, and leaving me feeling helpless, and furious at a God who seemed so brutal, so cruel. Why did he cause so much pain? So much suffering!?

I couldn’t answer the answer question - not now, not then; so after mother passed away grief weighed me down like lead. I couldn’t find the energy to fish. Then the grief got even worse and seemed to turn into a dull knife slowly cutting and twisting through me. Afraid I was losing my mind, and that the walls of my apartment were closing in on me like a vise, I told myself I had to go outside. But where? A voice told me to take my fly rod and reel. Should I listen? I took my fly rod out of its case. It seemed to shine like gold. I held the rod handle. The cork felt like silk, in some way comforting. I put on my fly-fishing vest and looked in the mirror. Yes I was once an angler, once loved being in the outdoors, especially in a gurgling river or a gently crashing surf.

I took my fly rod and reel and walked to the old pier. Again I became an angler. Surprisingly, my grief numbed, maybe even lifted; so the next day I went again, and then for the next few years fishing was all I really cared about.

Finally, slowly, my other interests - football, music, history - returned, but none rivaled fishing on the pier, even if I had on the wrong fly.

I wondered if I should change flies, then decided that with all I was going through, and with nature’s beauty seeming to embrace me in a way that - yes - my mother never did, the fly I fished shouldn’t matter. I’ll stay with the White Deceiver, I decided. I caught my breath, then reminded myself to break my wrist and drift my fly rod downward at the end of my back cast.

It worked! My fly shot almost ninety feet, then gently touched down on the surface. I smiled. Above the middle of the river a flock of seagulls circled. Their sharp chirps somehow sounded amplified by the peaceful vision of the orange sun setting and beaming down hundreds and hundreds of diamonds bobbing and reflecting off the gently flowing river.

The seagulls didn’t dive. Bait fish probably weren’t around; so neither were the striped bass.

I wasn’t discouraged. So for the next few hours, as the sky ripened into dusk pink, I cast again and again and retrieved faster and faster, afraid that the sun would soon sink behind the trees and roll up its flickering path that crossed the grayish water and seemed to stop at my pier.

Slow down, I told myself. Don’t worry about the sun going down. It will be here tomorrow, and so will I. And don’t worry about winter. Before long it will retreat and the bare trees will again bloom with life, and then maybe the stripers will return to the pier, but if they don’t, will it really matter?

No, because out here nothing is broken, except fixable casts.
The Way of the River My Journey of Fishing, Forgiveness and Spiritual Recovery

... Now it was my turn to feel shot full of Novocain. I remembered the power of a good story, especially told by someone who had never written one. I remembered how my father, in his way, had also deserted me and how, even after his death, a part of me wanted him back, partly because I knew if he read my memoirs he would be proud, very proud.

I didn’t have to wonder why Thomas told me his story. He wanted me to write it and, in a sense, keep him alive in the small world of fishing. But did I, a little-known writer with a long line of mistakes in life, have power over who lived and died? If so, did I want it?

The wind, I noticed, had retreated. The leaves were still, and the Meer looked like a life-size frame on a movie screen. Then I realized it was a three-dimensional frame, seemingly a moment frozen in time. Did the Meer somehow create the frame to acknowledge Thomas and to give him a little more precious time? If so, I wished the much larger world could do the same, for him and for other cancer patients as well.

Though the water had become darker, the colors of its vibrating reflections—trees and tall buildings—had brightened, ironically. I thought, again I wish that, as the sun sets on our lives, we became beautiful, like autumn leaves. Are men and women less deserving than leaves because of our mistakes, especially our long, long string of wars? But now, as I look back, I see my cancer-stricken mother having been more beautiful just before she died.

A flock of geese dived and shattered the calm surface of the Meer. The geese and seagulls soon formed two distinct camps on the water. The camps reminded me of opposing armies on the night before they clashed. But the geese swam away. The seagulls didn’t pursue. Yes, geese and seagulls are more like anglers sharing the same lake or river than like opposing armies fighting, killing for the same land.

“Randy, I have to go. Good luck with your test.”

“Thanks, Thomas, thanks.”

I watched him drive out of the park. Will I see him again? I wondered. If I don’t, I’ll miss him. How I wish I could see my parents again. But at least I can still see my sister. Thank God she never overdosed. I wonder what’s going through Thomas’s mind, knowing he might not ever again see the Meer? What will his final journey—to where time cannot go—be like? And what will my final journey be like? Is it better if I don’t know? ...
The Way of the River My Journey of Fishing, Forgivness and Spiritual Recovery