Book Review: Rabbit Hole for Rent and Other Allegorical Tales

I was asked to do a reading on the topic, "Unclaimed Space" at the Sackett pub in Brooklyn and I thought I would share what I wrote on SFC...

Seeking out the novel and the alien in a world that is designed around routine and obligation isn’t easy. There are fewer hours for getting lost, less proximate unexplored spaces, and more empirical evidence that I may not actually have any superpowers. This last bit of self reflection may seem irrelevant to a love of getting lost, but across a lifetime, my belief that I could always find my way home – even defy laws of physics and tamper with fate--made it easier to disappear. I also happen to know how to read a map.

As a kid, my dreams were always geocoded to the same location. The world of my nighttime adventures was debatable, ethereal, and fantastic. As I walked alone on the silver pavement, the concrete would turn into a sundrenched stream, the city would fade away and I would be left standing with wet feet in an unfamiliar landscape. This never scared me. I wished for it. I expected it. I still expect it and I know there are other adults out there that expect it too.

The reason that I believe in this possibility is because I was introduced to science fiction before I had a firm grasp on the limits of reality. Like a heart that has never been broken, imagination space free of imprint was first marked by the backdrops and characters of beautiful, but terrifying places. These were places riddled with conflict, and it was here that I first learned about the truly wicked ways creatures can treat each other, and their worlds. Children are well-equipped to become citizens of imaginary lands - shaped by the cultural identity of places like Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Mars (a.k.a. Barsoom) and C.S. Lewis’ Narnia –where violence and warfare are an inescapable part of being on the side of right. In these places, I witnessed the customs and traditions of people concerned with harnessing the scarce resources of their world for survival and made peace with the art of war.

Each night as I read stories with a flashlight under my covers I wondered if tonight might be the night I would fall down the rabbit hole into the lands beyond expectation. I was ready to be pressed into service to save a dying planet or to restore the earth’s equilibrium. Empty wardrobes, bricked in alleys, and unclaimed spaces where a child might hide – or better where they might seek, and find a world that would reveal their true identity -- were passages. Marked by beacons that only the initiated might see, these roads alluded to the promise of heroic work. Side of right jobs are difficult to come by and it’s a gift not to have to look elsewhere to create meaning in one’s life. I wanted one.

While waiting for my offer, I was expected to get an education so I built my ability to recognize danger and create alliances. I studied aesthetics – literally the examination of different ways of seeing and perceiving the world, hoping that I wouldn’t miss the beauty disguised all around me. And then there was this thing about the maps. I studied planning, but it was my informal work in this discipline that has a direct correlation to the superhero waitlist. I meticulously catalogued and memorized tactical terrain. The visual geography of moss-covered dead-sea bottoms, extensive canals and the inhospitable frontier that separates the deserts and cities of Barsoom is as clear to me as any landscape on Earth. The in-between spaces – unnamed, unremarkable and on the way to somewhere else – are the ones that determine the way home and tell the story of whether one arrives at their destination.

With time though, the real estate of imagination gets cluttered with the rights and responsibilities of the perceptible world. I didn’t quite fall down the rabbit hole (unless you count the time my infant son was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes), but I have heroically found my way back from dark places. My side of right job at the moment (when I am not managing emergencies in NYC)is reading the Phantom Tollbooth to my children as frequently as they can stand and making sure they study the landscape between the marked foothills of confusion and the great city of Dictionopolis. My heart sings when my children try to conduct the sunset or demand that we call a wizard when a task exceeds our mere human abilities.

I dutifully got a day job too, but my predilection for mythical creatures, righteous warfare, cartography, and being unexpectedly thrust from reality into another time/space continuum is still there. Like an avatar waiting for my return, the girl standing with wet feet in an unfamiliar landscape waits.

I am not sure I want to know if she's real or worse, if she isn't. In this hyper-networked world where do any of us live really? From the rabbit hole to the wardrobe to the imagined geography of all of the places I’ve never been, the who and what and where of becoming a citizen of a place has changed. In our dissolving hearts, minds, and countries? In the boundaries? It’s the space between us that is most notable – the last great wilderness.

Required Reading:

The Phantom Tollbooth; A Princess of Mars; Alice in Wonderland; The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe; Le Petite Prince; A Wrinkle in Time; The Secret Garden

IMPORTANT

A good friend and colleague recently lent me a book titled, “Breakthrough—Elizabeth Hughes, the Discovery of Insulin, and the Making of a Medical Miracle.” I’m only about 20 pages in to it, managing only a few pages a day as I ride the subway (and oddly holding the book up to show off its cover—subconsciously hoping that others will see and somehow understand why I’m reading this book). As its title connotes, this book chronicles the discovery of insulin as a treatment for type 1 diabetes. In 1919, diabetes was a terminal illness, with most patients surviving no longer than a year after diagnosis. A fascinating story awaits me, one that is deeply personal, as my son Sam is alive today only because of the incredible medical advances made less than 100 years ago.

When I arrived home tonight I found a familiar package waiting—one we receive every three months. As I opened this package I was immediately struck by a recent labeling change to its contents. A white, padded, insulated envelope now said, in white letters inside an orange circle,

IMPORTANT

INSULIN

ENCLOSED

I was immediately taken aback—how to read this? Is it missing critical punctuation, so that I might read it, “IMPORTANT—INSULIN ENCLOSED,” or, as written, “IMPORTANT INSULIN ENCLOSED.” Is it important that there is insulin enclosed, or is the insulin enclosed important?

In 91 years we’ve advanced to a world where this life-sustaining hormone arrives at our door every three months. In a contemplative mood, I examined the package a bit more. “FRAGILE, HANDLE WITH CARE” is a common warning, but means so much more in this context. “REFRIGERATE IMMEDIATELY” wouldn’t have been possible in 1919, nor would “UPS NEXT DAY AIR.” This package was addressed to “SAMUEL DICKINSON, C/O FATHER JONATHAN DICKINSON.” I know this means the package is for Sam, to be cared for by me, but I could only read it one way—“Samuel Dickinson is in the care of his father, Jonathan Dickinson.” It’s incredible that in less than a century we’ve transitioned from diabetes being a terminal illness to where Sam’s life is possible due to something that arrives in a cooler bag by next day air. It is essential. It is, to many, a miracle. It is, quite simply, important.

Thanks from "Sam's Friends"

Thank you for helping us exceed our fundraising goal for the third year in a row. Most of all thank you to those who walked with us (Erinn, Paul, Laura, Madelyn, Liz, Dave, Deirdre, Andy, Ruth, Jacob, Sarah, Lily, Alex, Matt, Donald, Raleigh, big Sam, Sharon, and Grandma). It was a very special day.

Fundraising

Awkward, intimate, inspiring, imposing, shameless, gratifying, necessary.


This exercise raises a real internal struggle for me each year. I am amazed by the generosity that friends and strangers have shown towards this cause on Sam’s behalf. The former colleagues of my mother who annually solicit $5 and $10 donations from their colleagues, friends from childhood, people we know casually from our neighborhood, friends of friends, parents of friends, people who are exceedingly generous year after year, and people who just don’t have to support us, keep on doing it. Every year, I feel as though I can’t possibly do this again and then at the end I am so buoyed by the support and the thought that maybe our efforts made a difference.

I don’t know the origins of walking for a “cure” as a fundraising mechanism. Like everyone, I get a lot of emails like ours and so I am sympathetic to the over-saturation of important causes. We have adopted a few that we support in addition to JDRF. Some we have a personal connection to (breast cancer, ALS, pediatric hospitals) and with others the only connection is that the person we know cared enough about someone else to participate. All the emails begin the same way: “I am walking for my mother, my cousin, my husband, my friend, my child, because this beautiful human being got some crappy disease that they didn’t deserve.” As much as I want to reach our goal (the 2007 and 2008 circle of excellence awards for raising over $10k are hanging in Sam’s room with an obvious spot for 2009), the actual walking is a really important part of this annual effort. The shirts that we make for walk day all say, “I am walking for Sam Dickinson, Age __” and Sam’s says, “I’m Sam.” As he passes, people say “Go Sam!” or “You can do it Sam!” and it makes me think that his future is hopeful. You CAN do it Sam. You can live a great life.

Jon’s father lived with ALS for nine years before his death in 2002. His final years defined courageous. After he was completely paralyzed and lost his ability to speak, he continued to write his syndicated column using only his eyes and a special keyboard. He was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize for those articles. Twice. In one particular article he wrote about all the small joys of life and I distinctly remember the line, “Walk, Oh, do walk when you can.” Even though our fundraising effort is for JDRF, when we “walk” I always think of him and of what a privilege it is to be healthy. Sometimes he would write about day to day events in the life of his own family. I can imagine how he would report on this event and perfectly capture the spirit of walk day – especially the powerful imagery of families spilling across the bridge in support of their children. I wish he had known Sam and Talia and that he could write them a story about this day.

Walking is freedom and power. After a two year period that included open heart surgery and breast cancer, my mother found the strength to do this walk for Sam. Her walk each year has nothing to do with fundraising and everything to do with the power of love. It seems almost possible that this kind of power might crush diabetes. If only.

The truth is that Jon and I believe in science. I want science to make diabetes into some obscure thing and I want it to happen quickly. It will cost money. Which is why, despite the awkwardness of fundraising we do it year after year. Aside from providing the diligent care and attention that diabetes requires this is really the only thing we have the power to do. We are humbled by and grateful to all who have helped us do it. This Sunday, we will walk for Sam and for the dignity and peace that every human being deserves. We love each and every one of you who “walk” with us every day in this journey to create a better future for our son.

Reese's Pieces in Court Street Fire

Yesterday afternoon Sam and I attended a showing of the 3D Guinea Pig movie at the big multiplex on Court Street and got a 4D bonus experience for our $24. The theater is two stories underground down a very long escalator. Halfway through the film, the screen went dark. No emergency lights came on and no announcements were made so we sat in the dark waiting for the film to start up again. The theater was full of children, including about 40 kids in yellow shirts from a local day camp. After a few minutes one of the counselors said, "everyone stay in your seats it's just a fire alarm." People started to get uneasy in the darkness using iPhones and blackberries to create some light. I subsequently decided it was time to leave with Sam as people started jockeying past us.

The elevators and escalators were shut off so I took Sam's hand in mine and we began to head toward the still escalator. I put him in front of me and asked him to walk up the escalator as fast as possible. I was right behind him (dragging a 17 pound stroller which in retrospect I should have left behind but at this point we still had no indiction that there was an actual emergency). When we got to the top, there was a fire between us and the door. It was hot and smoky. Flames were pouring out of the popcorn machine and spreading through the concession area. I could see a bottleneck at the door because people weren't making space once they made it outside. Sam and I ran through the smoke and made it out the door onto the street. Some kids were coughing, a few were crying. Sam was neither - just attentive. We walked a few blocks to get some distance from the situation and then watched the fire trucks come. Sam said simply, "I've never been in a fire with flames before." I said that I hadn't either and I hugged him and told him how proud I was of how calm he stayed and how he listened to everything I said. He then asked me when we were going back in. When I told him that we wouldn't be going back in today he was very concerned - not because we didn't see the end of the movie, but because we had abandoned the box of Reese's Pieces that we were sharing. This precious commodity was in danger. And then the questions... "will the snacks burn?... What will they do with them?... Who will eat them? I mindlessly answered these questions while thinking only about the feeling of his hand in mine - of leading him to safety.