“I went into the hospital in 1946, with advanced tuberculosis, and altogether I spent three and a half years in the hospital. By the time I got out I had had 10 ribs removed, one lung collapsed, a piece of the other one removed, and there were some severe complications from an experimental drug that was used to keep me alive. During these years I was given up for dead several times. One doctor told me that I could not live, I just didn’t have enough lung capacity, and I should just go home and sit quietly and I would soon be dead. Now, I am blessed with a rotten attitude, and my response to statements of this nature is, Fuck you, no one tells me what to do!” – Hubert Selby Jr., February 24, 1999, LA Weekly
As we’ve previously determined, death and I have grown to have a complicated relationship.
Something unlocked in my head on the day that I learned the full scope of my first years and how close I came to losing it all. There’s a certain perspective that can come with the idea of coming that close to meeting your maker. I’m glad that I didn’t have a clue about it until my teenage years when I was about to become all “dark and brooding” anyway and was able to enjoy a mostly regular childhood. I have my parents, particularly my mother to thank for that. In the face of all that uncertainty and darkness, I’ve grown a pretty good sense of humor about it all. When you come from a background that limits you from certain activities like playing sports or running around rough housing for long periods of time like a normal, growing boy, you can either be depressed about it, or find a way to adapt.
My way of adapting was through humor. As I got older and grew to better understand things, gallows humor became a driving force in my personality. I can’t help it, when it comes to storytelling, I like things on the dark side, because it wouldn’t be a story if “everything stayed okay” all the time. If you can inject some sort of humor into something horrible or sad, then you’ll make me your biggest fan. Around my teenage years, I began referring to my life past the age of eight when I had my second surgery as “my borrowed time” and it’s been a terminology I’ve stuck with ever since. I used “my borrowed time is now old enough to drink legally” in a speech to some officials of Connecticut government on behalf of the American Heart Association shortly after I turned 29.
I know that in saying things like these that I tread close to the territory of those who paint their finger nails black and expend an alarming effort to avoid contact with direct sunlight, but I assure you, this is not the case. I have a deep love and passion for life and feel that anyone who worships the idea of dying is wasting their precious and short time here on this planet. The idea of suicide angers me to an unreasonable degree, and I understand that people who feel this way really don’t think that there’s another option for themselves, and while I’m sad for them, I just can’t bring myself to respect that kind of mentality, given my unique place in life and my relationship with defying odds and expectations. Knowing now, how close I’ve come on repeated occasions to dying adds a degree of preciousness to my life as a whole, as well as the concept of the future for me. Essentially, since the day I was born, I started living on borrowed time. My borrowed time began extending slowly over all these small periods of time, the time between my birth and first surgery, the matter of years between my first surgery leading up to my second surgery, the time after my second surgery as I began to not just recover, but flourish in ways no one ever expected me to. To this day, I’ve grown up to be thirty years old and counting. I’m a successful, published writer after pursuing my dream for over a decade, I’m finally getting through college, and I’ve become a massive health nut who works out like a fiend. All of the limitations I had had placed on me growing up, I’ve gone on to obliterate most of them as time went on. My relationship with death has informed the way that I live my life and how I will continue to live it until the day that borrowed time finally decides to expire.
Death is not something to be feared. Everybody does it, sometimes it happens to us sooner than we would like. We never know when our time might come, so blah, blah, blah, “YOLO” this, “carpe diem” that. Death is not something to be embraced. Sitting around dwelling on the end as though it were some hot, malnourished guy or girl in skinny jeans with a pallor to their flesh not unlike egg nog, is just as much a waste of time. Have a healthy respect for it. Try not to go careening wrecklessly into it, but don’t deprive yourself of new adventures out of anxiety over it. Try and keep your personal levels of irresponsible stupidity to a minimum. Just know that there’s no reason to fear it.
Know this intimately and you may notice that you tend to care a lot less about the more trivial things in life.