Finding the Right Words

Exactly two years ago today, as we waited for the moment when we would remove Dad's life support, I kept on trying to remember the lines spoken over Hamlet's body at the end of Shakespeare's play. I felt that I ought to say some sort of benediction, some final word befitting the man that he was:

Good night, Sweet Prince...and heaven sings you to your rest.

I knew those weren't exactly right. I'd never bothered to read all the way through Hamlet, though I had seen a couple film versions and could quote maybe half of the famous "To Be or Not to Be" soliloquy. I wasn't even sure who said the lines--was it Laertes? Was it Horatio?

Farewell, sweet prince...let...angels sing you to your rest?

I considered Googling it several times, but I knew that would require me to use my smartphone. I'd turned it off hours earlier. I didn't want to see pitying Facebook comments, or worse, messages from people who didn't know.

So I just kept on mixing up the words in my head. I tried to reconstruct the iambs in time to the beeping of the heart monitor, substituting words into the gaps in my rhythm. Sitting there in the hospital room, watching family and friends filter in and out to say their goodbyes to a man already gone, I fixated on finding the magic word order. Only exactly the right combination of those ten words would work. They wouldn't save him, I knew, but they might send him off right.

Good night, sweet prince. And heavens above sing you to your rest.

I never did say it aloud. I felt kind of silly, wanting to quote maudlin poetry over Dad's unconscious body in the Neuro ICU. Especially since I couldn't even remember the bloody words. My lapse seemed fittingly ironic: if I'd had more time, I would have studied elegies, researched good final lines from plays and movies. I would have found the perfect combination of words to send him off into the ether.

Sometimes, this seems like a fitting metaphor for what I've been doing these past two years. All this writing. All this talking. Just rearranging words and sentences, trying to find exactly the right order. Over and over. This time, I'll get it right. The right prayer to express my sorrow; the right incantation to heal my wounds.

So thanks to you, each of you, who have stuck with me through all these stumblings, these aborted and confused arrangements of words. Whether you've never met me, whether we've lost touch as friends, you're family, or you see me on campus every day. Thank you.

Dr. Timothy H. Brown, with baby Caleb

Sept. 5 1953-October 18, 2011

Horatio: Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince,

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!     

Step 1: Panic, Step 2: Achieve Greatness

I'm currently having a mini-panic attack in the library here at Unviersity of Cincinnati about applying to PhD programs. So stressful! So many things to do! Such low chances that I'll get acceptances!

This is your brain on stress.

I have been agonizing for weeks about which programs to apply to, trying to balance rankings, funding, GRE requirements, faculty, location,and likelihood that I'll get in. Each is an impossible problem to solve, not only because I'm terrible about math. I never could quite get the hang of probability: (If you reach into your sock drawer in the dark, and you have six blue socks, eight red socks, and fifteen mismatched socks, what color sock will you most likely get? The answer is I have no freaking idea. Just turn on the lights).

And no, I don't want to know the answer, smarty pants. It was just a metaphor.

But the problem is also impossible because several of the factors are unknowable: I won't know if I get in until it happens. I don't know who else is applying. I don't know what budget problems the departments are facing this year. I don't know who will read my materials. I've tried to be thorough, but I can't research every program in the United States. What if I ignore the only school I'm "meant" to be at?

I was thinking, "man, I don't remember being this overwhelmed when I applied to MA programs!" And then I remembered, that's cause Dad had died a few weeks before. I barely remember most of that time, and I certainly don't remember if I was worried about my applications as I was pulling them together. Though I definitely wanted to go to graduate school, it was low on my list of daily hopes:

1. That this will all turn out to be a crazy dream.

2. If it isn't a dream, that I manage to get out of bed.

3. Get into a good MA program, I guess?

But I guess having much worse and upsetting things on your mind isn't exactly the best advice for not being stressed about something. Probably not a good idea to invite that sort of thing. So maybe it's about keeping the right perspective: I can do this. I've survived worse. I've done it before, sort of. It'll all work out somehow.

Okay, self: here is your mantra for today: