The Borderland of Père Lachaise
Crowded with more celebrities than a Oscars afterparty, the cemetery offers space for contemplation and wonder. (Also, unrelated scenes and the latest medical update).
September 14, 2024
Back from Paris, where I had as good a time as I could have wanted (see previous post on my appointment with a Parisienne oncologist/researcher). After my medical appointments, I did my favorite thing in Paris: I walked the streets. I thought about what else I might want to do there, if I had time. I have no interest in shopping. I probably never want to buy anything again. I am free from the capitalist tyranny of stores. I did most of the big tourist attractions decades ago. What is left for me in this city is people and beauty. When not at the hospital, I spent time with my dear friends Ana and Cat. And I walked.
On my last afternoon I walked with Cat through Père Lachaise, which I had never managed to visit before. Isn’t that morbid? A friend asked. Well, I’m not likely to be buried there, I replied. I wanted to pay tribute to people who have mattered to me, starting with Oscar Wilde and Isadora Duncan. But what struck me most about the cemetery was the quiet beauty, the way that nature has been permitted to add its touches to the monuments, draping them with moss and light. Tree roots have been allowed to tilt and upend stone. The green of the place, touched with late-afternoon gold, made it beautiful. The reminder that nature absorbs us all in the end.
Oscar Wilde’s monument was disappointing. Surrounded by so many beautifully carved pieces of stone, it is crafted from a vast block of cement. A sphinx-like figure weighed down by enormous wings flies atop the crude block, stomach down, Superman style. It is not enough to elevate the bare cement, which sinks my soul. (The sphinx apparently used to have a penis—foolishly, I have always thought the Sphinx female—but people were so scandalized by the representation of the male reproductive organ that it was cemented over. What ninnies people can be, over a absurd little piece of flesh!). So many visitors used to come and kiss the statue, requiring constant cleaning of the monument, that a plastic barrier has been erected around it. Now that plastic barrier is covered with lipsticked marks. Tucked inside were a few dried flowers, packets of condoms, and bits of rubbish. It’s hard to imagine that the man who reportedly said on his deathbed, “either that wallpaper goes or I do,” would have admired Jacob Epstein’s memorial or the trash at its base. Wilde deserves better.
Isadora Duncan has a modest plaque on a wall among hundreds of others who have been cremated. In our wanderings, we also passed the graves of Frédéric François Chopin, Jim Morrison, and Miguel Ángel Asturias Rosales. The cemetery was tranquil and unpopulated by the living.
I loved being in a city. Paris in particular, of course, but I love life in cities. Since 1990, I have only lived in major cities, with the exception of nearly a year in Montana. I love the constant opportunities for engagement with other humans, the infinite cultural offerings, and walking as a form of transportation. When in a city, I walk about twelve miles a day, just getting from one place to another. In the country, I walk less than a third of that despite climbing a small mountain nearly every day. Every urban block presents me with new tableaus and overheard bits of conversation.
As I was standing in line at Motors Coffee near Chatelet, a man sitting nearby, noting my London Review of Books bag, said “I love the London Review of Books!” We continued talking and I ended up joining him and his friend for a long chat over 7-euro cups of tea and coffee until Cat arrived. These are the kind of encounters I had constantly in Seattle, New York, Sana’a, La Paz, and London. I live for these encounters.
Oh, speaking of cities, I promised you a New York anecdote. While we were in Manhattan for the last few days of our summer, Tim and I went to the Museum of Modern Art to do a bit of research for my current novel (working on the second draft). After buying tickets, we headed to the reception desk for the cinema inside. “I have a question for you,” I told the man who greeted us. “I’m a novelist, and a scene in the book I’m writing takes place here. I’m wondering if—”
I hadn’t even finished my question when he got up and reached for his keys. “You want to photograph the theaters?”
“Yes please! I would love that.”
He asked me what year the scene takes place, and began explaining which parts of the lobby would have existed in that year. “We moved the reception desk after the assault,” he said. One of the museum’s members had leapt over the reception desk and stabbed two staffers upon being denied entry. He showed me the desk where it had happened, now moved to the back of the lobby. As he guided us around and unlocked the theaters for us, he told us more about the films and audiences. “Mostly it’s members,” he said. “The same people come every day.”
When I had finished my notes and photos, our guide, the delightful Peter Riley, said, “Why don’t I comp you a couple of tickets to the museum.”
“That’s very nice,” I said. “But we already bought tickets.”
“Then I’ll reimburse you. Come.” He brought us upstairs and reimbursed us in cash. He also gave me his email address in case I had further questions.
Just one of the many reasons I adore New York.
Yesterday we picked up Theo from school and took her to a jazz dance class before heading home. She loved it, but we’re not sure we can afford to enroll her. Things are tight, and we have a lot of tickets to Paris to buy.
Because it was late, we stopped at a little restaurant in the neighboring town for dinner. There was nothing on the menu that met my dietary rules, but the chef made me a special plate of things I could eat. Even the French are flexible sometimes!
We listened to all of Theo’s latest stories about her life at school, which is as full of drama as an Egyptian soap. I told her about my trip to Paris, to see Ana’s doctor. I said I had gone because it was one of the best hospitals in the world, the doctor was doing amazing research, and that she had given me some new hope.
Then, because this is not something I could or even would try to keep from her, I told her I will likely be starting weekly chemotherapy soon.
“You’re having another recurrence?” She seemed surprised.
“I did say I might be…”
“But I thought you’d tell me when you knew for sure.”
“I promise I wasn’t going to keep it secret from you. But you have an awful lot going on in your life and there wasn’t a rush to tell you.”
“I’m sorry. I love you.” She was sitting next to me, and reached over to hug me.
“I didn’t want you to feel guilty for living your life. I want you to just be fourteen.”
“Not fourteen! It’s such an inbetween age.”
“Then I want you to just be fifteen.” Her birthday is in two months.
“It didn’t even occur to me to feel guilty! Now I am thinking about it.”
I felt terrible.
“I’m sorry! I just meant that I think you are in exactly the right place, and that I want you to continue to enjoy your life there.”
Tim was making an odd face, so I wondered if I was doing everything all wrong.
We didn’t linger in that part of the conversation, moving on to talk generally about how interesting the trials were.
“I promise I will fight this as hard as I can,” I said. “I am extraordinarily motivated.”
When we got home Theo and I continued to talk as we got ready for bed. So many of our best conversations happen in the bathroom and late at night. It buoys me so much to have her home.
Ever since I got home from Paris I have been exhausted, like I’ve suddenly been dropped from a great height. I had so much energy in Paris, and for the last couple of days I have struggled on my walks and cannot stay awake in my reading chair. I’ve been so exhausted I just tested myself for covid (negative, thankfully!). All three of us had a mostly home day yesterday. Theadora slept until nearly noon and spent the day on homework, talking with friends, and taking walks in the abruptly autumnal sunshine. I had so much I wanted to do, work on my novel, unpack my books, organize bits of the house, but I couldn’t. All I could do was sit in my chair and alternately read and sleep. I hate days like these, which feel wasted (not the reading of course!). In the evening we watched Theater Camp, which was a fun movie. Even Theadora, who usually cannot be persuaded to watch a film, enjoyed it.
September 17, 2024
Today is Tim’s Birthday, and I find myself at a loss to begin to describe what he means to me, all of the reasons I love and celebrate him. Millions crowd into my head, but here are a few: over the past year, he has without complaint done everything in his power to keep our family together and moving forward, especially when I’ve been too ill to be useful. Every time I can’t sleep, he reads to me until I do. He accompanies me to nearly every medical appointment, translates my medical records, takes care of all of our family paperwork—visa renewals, school forms, bills, house repairs—, he takes Theo to theatre classes, does all the dishes, researches clinical trials, understands when I need solitude and when I don’t, makes endless tea, and believes in my powers of survival, no small thing. In short, he hasn’t yet had a moment to relish retirement or think of what is next for him. He is also always researching plays we could go see, films to watch, and willing to listen to audiobooks with me. Friends ask me how he is doing, and it’s hard to say because he is so steady and calm on the surface. There is probably some frantic paddling going on beneath that surface, for he too can’t help but imagine what life would be like should my time be very short. If you know Tim, please drop him a line today. I would like to know he is surrounded by friends. He is my hero in every possible way and my great love. I hope that I can be a livelier, healthier, more loving companion to him in the coming year.
September 18, 2024
This already long enough. But I will end with a brief medical update. I have a PET scan this Friday. If it shows measurable disease, then I can be considered for trials. If not, I can either wait until something shows on a scan, or begin taxol chemotherapy. I will be discussing this with my Montpellier oncologue Friday afternoon, I hope. I would like to know when chemo will begin, as I have many things scheduled in the next month in other parts of the country. I don’t want to cancel unless I must. Whether or not I qualify for a trial, I will begin taxol. Bald photos to come, no doubt. If it doesn’t work, all that is apparently left to me is a trial. This thought triggers such a plummet of my spirits, such a descent into terror, that I need to turn myself away. I am not reconciled to leaving this life.
I worry about being too solitary when community increases my odds. I need to leave my house more and engage with my friends here. It’s just so hard, when there is so much to do in the house! If anyone wants to sit on my sofa and watch me alphabetize books, you are very welcome!
You have my heart with this post, Jennifer. My novel Sheltering Angel Based on a True Story of the Titanic has a scene set in Pére Lachaise cemetery. I'll be wandering there in February. My very best wishes to you on your treatment and recovery. As a breast cancer survivor, I understand the determination to beat the odds. I know you will. <3
Chopin is buried in Pere Lachaise and I haven't yet been to see his grave. I really must do it - perhaps next year. Of course, we always plan ahead, hoping, expecting, that we will see next year. This is one thing that cancer has taught me: to do the things that matter most right now. It's a hard lesson, though. But now I appreciate time in a different way, and relish even more the giving and receiving of love from family and friends. I'm living a different life to the one I would have lived had I not had cancer, more fulfilling for sure. I'm putting cancer in the past tense and I hope you can too one day. I enjoyed reading this post, Jennifer, even if it made my heart skip a beat at times. Thank you for sharing. :-)