<p>Initially written for a dear, dear friend (girlfriend?) Anyway, I thought that I'd do this forum a service by sharing a good story. Bon appetit!</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>“Bonjour, Monsieur. Name, please.”</p>
<p>My name. The hotel clerk needed it to find my reservation. </p>
<p>Never would I have seen myself ten years ago as an iterant, living in hotel after hotel. </p>
<p>Neither did I know ten years ago that I had Huntington’s disease. </p>
<p>H.D. </p>
<p>These acronyms had acquired such meaning after I found out that I was afflicted by Huntington’s disease. I remember studying Huntington’s, impersonally, in my high school biology class. An insidious neurodegenerative disease, there exists no cure. Sufferers gradually lose motor control and cognitive abilities. There was no emotion involved in delineating the causes, symptoms, and dire prognosis. Now, I wonder why can’t the acronyms stand for something more cheerful, such as homecoming date? C’est la vie. </p>
<p>Ten years ago my dad had passed away. Of the few things I still remember clearly is that day. It was a cruel twist of fate on the interstate. A suspect heading south on I-95 had decided it would be a great idea to make a U-turn via the grassy median. If my dad had left work just seconds earlier, or later, he would have avoided his unfortunate fate – the suspect would perhaps have slammed into some other unfortunate person’s car, or no car at all. If my dad had missed that green light … if my dad had decided to get some gas before getting on the interstate. Enough. Life is a battle. Although the rules of engagement may be absurd, each breath we take is a tacit acknowledgement. </p>
<p>Through the crack of the master bedroom door that night, I saw my mom weeping. I tip-toed in. I hadn’t even said anything before her sobbing increased tenfold. Was it something I had done? Was I not a good child? Perhaps I too closely resembled my dad; after all, he had passed away earlier that day. </p>
<p>A few years ago my mom also died. Fortunately, however, it was a peaceful exit. Just before she passed, she pressed an envelope into my hand. It was addressed to “my dearest and only son.” I had stuffed it away in my jacket pocket at first. Only a few weeks after her last breath did I open the letter. Like only nibbling a cookie in my childhood to preserve its tasty goodness, I held off reading the letter, so my experiences with my mom wouldn’t be limited to the time of her last breath, but instead drawn out, if only for a little while longer. </p>
<p>Upon reading the letter I was filled with disgust. Disgust later subsided to anger. Anger, then numbness, then finally a grudging acceptance. </p>
<p>My dad died not in a car accident but because of Huntington’s disease. The puzzle pieces fell into place. Finally, I understood his dementia. Finally, I understood why his birthday cards stopped coming in the mail like clockwork. Finally, I understood why he started referring to me as “Mister” on occasion. </p>
<p>Perhaps the bigger bombshell was that my mom also had Huntington’s disease. This again would explain her memory loss. And her uncontrollable shaking. I had attributed both my parents’ symptoms to old age and natural degeneration. </p>
<p>Knowledge is not power. I nearly collapsed when the genetic implications dawned upon me. Huntington’s is an autosomal dominant disease. So if only my dad had Huntington’s, I would have had a 50% chance of inheriting Huntington’s. A flip of the coin. Unfortunately, both my parents had Huntington’s. </p>
<p>The damned fools. Both of them had Huntington’s, both of them knew from an early age, and yet they decided to have me. They knew all their children would be doomed. Those lovesick and foolish birds. I guess love really knows no boundaries; that love really is irrational. Huntington’s is my destiny.</p>
<p>And this I guess explains why I’m here at this unfamiliar hotel in Paris. I’ve taken to traveling ever since I’ve learned my about my biology. Biology is destiny, I remember one of my teachers telling me. I think I remember him … that was junior year. Or was that senior year? Huntington’s has already started taking its toll on me. </p>
<p>I’ve estranged myself from everyone through travel, as I know I’ll inevitably die early. There is no point in continuing or forming attachments with others. Also, I always wanted to see the world before I died. Once a distant daydream, now a reality. </p>
<p>I know that I’ll be gone in a few more years. I have virtually no chance of living past 35, since I have not one but two alleles for Huntington’s. It’s 2026 now, and I’m 31. In a few years, I’ll probably collapse on a train to somewhere, hopelessly convulsing. People will gawk and wonder about the identity of that frothing and likely insane person. Or maybe I’ll be alone in my hotel room at night, reminiscing over times and fortunes past. I’ll probably be listening to Steven Tyler bellow “what could have been love” when I suddenly collapse, unable to breathe, choke on my own saliva, and asphyxiate – alone. Just as there is no greater joy than companionship, there is perhaps no greater evil than loneliness … </p>
<p>The couple behind me coughs. What passive-aggressiveness. Whatever. I had better figure out and tell the hotel clerk my name soon. </p>
<p>My name was Hamlet, for I once always vacillated. Paralyzed by thought. I remember my high school days. Greeting someone in the hallway would exhaust me of my courage for the day, much less reaching out for a handshake or a hug. Rejection lurked behind every smile. I feared even the nicest of people – behind their genuine smiles somewhere lurked a “no” or a disgusted look that said “get off me.” </p>
<p>My name was Okonkwo, for I once always despised weakness, whether it be in me, or in others. I once donned facades, masks, veneers, to cover the emotional turbulence within me. Having no one to express my most intimate feelings to, I bottled it all up within me. I lavishly applied makeup each morning before school. I thought that a stoic calm at school would predispose me to feelings of attraction. It only took six years of experience to learn that it did not. </p>
<p>My name was Maxine Hong Kingston, for I once always saw life as a battle. Everyone was the enemy, I was the warrior. The lone warrior. It was me against the world. Few and rare were friends. That guy who smiled and said “hello” to me in the hallway? He’s teasing me. That girl who liked “my glasses”? She’s making fun of my face. </p>
<p>My name was Kurtz, for I once possessed an immense heart of darkness. A heart of lead. Dark, cold, hard, heavy, and poisonous. Nothing, no one, could touch it. No. That would show weakness, vulnerability. </p>
<p>My name was Meursault, for I once was empty. I was only a shell of a human being. Behind the thin veneer lay only a stormy sea of emotions. </p>
<p>I used to be Hamlet, Okonkwo, Kingston, Kurtz, and Meursault. That is, until I met, and got to know, her. I can’t exactly recall her name now; I think Huntington’s is to blame. But I do remember our trepid advances. </p>
<p>We were two birds. In adjacent cages. Until I finally brushed off my tendency to vacillate, and finally found someone to whom I could open my heart. I stopped seeing the world in black-and-white; me as the warrior, and everyone else as the foe. I found someone who forged something beautiful from my heart of lead. I found someone for whom I was gladly willing to break the rules. I found someone that made getting up and going to school easier each day. I found someone in whom I could confide my deepest thoughts without fear of embarrassment. I found someone who infused new meaning into my monotonous life of hitting the books each and every single day in order to one day have a successful job.
Job – I scoff at the idea now. This whole paradigm of studying hard in school, getting a high-paying job, starting a family, and living the rest of our endless numbered days in bliss has a hidden premise – that our days are really endless. Mine aren’t. I have at most only a few more years left before I exhaust my stay on this earthly world. </p>
<p>I still remember the idyllic days in which I would go to the playground on the weekends, sit in a swing by myself, listen to “You Are Not Alone,” and occasionally push on the adjacent swing, as if to symbolize her presence. Unfortunately, it only took a year for me to brush away my shyness. We went our separate ways after senior year. If I remember correctly, she went to college somewhere in Florida, while I wound up somewhere else. One of those Southern states. I don’t (can’t) remember. Nor do I want to. I don’t want to stir up old feelings of attachment. It would be best if she forgot about me, as I would inevitably be gone in a few years. No need to amplify any feelings of loss. Best to just disappear quietly, unbeknownst to anyone. Once alone, always alone. </p>
<p>“Monsieur …” The hotel clerk has an impatient look, head tilted, her eyebrows raised, and brow furrowed. She taps her index finger three times against the counter. </p>
<p>Drat. I need to remember the name I used over the phone when booking this hotel. But I can’t recall – Huntington’s has been tightening its noose. I give it my best guess – “Meursault” – after all, this was Paris, France, and I might have thought that a French pseudonym would be appropriate at the time I booked the room … </p>
<p>“Room 233. Second floor. Have a nice day. Bonne journ</p>