The Island is where the magic takes place...ones arrival at some truth or development one could not have logically predicted or expected, and it rises strangely, out of nothingness, out of the awkward dogwatches, mere journeying transit, in the writing...

John Fowles, Islands

An Introductory Note To The Hesitant Reader

I have lesions on my brain. I know this to be true because I've seen the pictures. I learned this ten years ago on the day of my son, Sam's birth. My neurologist at that time, a man well known for his lack of interpersonal skills happened to be passing through the cheerfully appointed maternity suites. He spotted me looking undeservedly upbeat, and delivered the verdict. He told me I had Multiple Sclerosis.

As the reader might guess, I found this pronouncement troubling. Multiple Sclerosis I was told, was a chronic, progressive illness. They weren't sure what caused it, didn't know how to fix it, and couldn't predict where it would take me. And to further dim my hopes that any of these questions might be resolved soon, I was disabused of my long held belief that Jerry Lewis pitched for this team.

And here, reader is an unflattering admission. When I encounter misfortune or bad luck I have an almost reflexive inclination to look around for others worse off than myself. It's not something I'm proud of but I'm strangely comforted by the many ready examples. At about this time I read that Christopher Reeves, Superman himself, had fallen off of his horse. Now that, I told myself, that constitutes a real problem. Multiple sclerosis, I told myself consolingly was hardly the worst thing that could befall the complacent boomer. It probably wasn't even in the upper tier of misfortunes. It didn't, for instance, kill you.

The reader needn't be alarmed. This is not intended to be a maudlin account of physical decline, nor will it be of the "brave guy stoically faces down chronic illness" sort. It's more, I think, in the genre of the medical mystery. To further reassure those of you who instinctively balk at anything hinting at sorrow, I've decide to divulge the surprise ending right here at the onset. It is this: as I punch these keys, ten years into this illness, I'm physically at a rather sorry low. I am, however more content with my life than I've ever been. Noone, dear reader could be more surprised, or more puzzled by this acknowledgment than I. It's certainly not what I'd have anticipated

Those of you from the "buck up boy" school of crisis management may be imagining that I've reached down deep and drawn from a store of internal resources to make a silk purse of this sows ear. This may work for some, but I don't think anyone who's known me well would think I harbor such reserves. I do know and admire such people, the sort herald for turning their lemons into lemonade. But in all candor, I'm more of a "folder" when confronted with adversity. This, I read in the literature, is not the ideal place to be situated when afflicted with chronic illness. The better candidate has ready reserves of will, courage, tenacity, and independence. These unfortunately have proven to be my weak suits.

Experts on these matters, think it important that the bearer of such bad tidings strive to "adjust and accommodate" to his/her changed circumstances All of this, of course, comes well after the afflicted persons initial panic. My first response was pretty much in step with the Hierarchy of Human Needs posited by the father of humanistic psychology, Abraham Maslowe. I wondered if I could still afford lunch. Later I was beset by the more abstract concerns; a creeping perception that I'd lost control over the direction of my life and a fear that I was likely to lose many of the things that had always defined me. For better or worse.

The question I wish to explore through the telling of this story is how we might account for my inexplicable contentedness in light of my very real woes. I have my suspicions, and they don't point to personal resiliency. The answer I believe lies in circumstances and events set in play by illness, but largely occurring outside of any conscious intention. This is fortunate because my conscious intentions have a very bad track record. A convergence of events really, part serendipity and part hard science. The story may be read by the poets among you


as unassailable proof of the transformative potential of place. Those of a more scientific mind might see it as testimony to the brains incredible plasticity and adaptability. I think both are true. My brain, the very same organ that so often loses my car keys, appears to have risen to the insult of neurological illness. When lesions destroyed particular paths, particular ways of doing things it, it seemed to invent new ones. When physical limitations made certain favored activities impossible it seemed to alter it's preferences. One could argue that even as my antibodies ran amuck, gnawing insatiably on my central nervous system, my brain was busying itself fashioning a new me. My brain, he's clearly no quitter.

As to my motivation for writing these essays, , the idea has tugged at me for quite some time. It occurred to me that the story might be somewhat heartening to others arriving at illnesses door as ill prepared as I was. That possibility however, didn't seem to justify the time and effort it would require. But still, there was that pesky tug. I was watching Charley Rose on late night TV when I heard my elusive motivation voiced by his guest. Charley was deftly interviewing the author of a recent book award. He asked her what motivated her to write. She replied "I write to find out what I'm thinking". In a moment of perfect clarity I understood that the aforementioned tug had come from the tangled morass that masquerades as my thought processes. Ridding myself of that tug would require unraveling my experience, laying it out in sequential order to see what could be made of it. I would have to, lazy man though I am, write the story down.

My story, by necessity, wanders here and it wanders there. Ten years is a long time. A lot can happen in even the most mundane of lives. Writing these essays is my attempt to glean meaning from events occurring between my forty fifth and fifty fifth years. I believe, in retrospect, that there is a coherent explanation for why things unfolded as they did, and why events affected me as they did. I'm reasonably confident that you, the inquisitive reader, and I will be able to ferret out this meaning. I believe we'll have to conclude that the human brain, even when subjected to decidedly slipshod owner upkeep, remains an adaptable, sturdy organ. Perhaps the reader will find it as reassuring as I have that latent capacities within the brain appear capable of taking the wheel should ones sense of direction becomes compromised. Having a neurological illness, like setting out for a festive night on the town, is less foreboding knowing that you have a designated drive along. It's possible, of course that I'm reading too much into this, that with the benefit of hindsight I'm forcing meaning on to coincidental occurrences. It's also possible I suppose, that critically situated lesions are impeding my ability to assess any of this objectively. The reader will have to be the judge of this.

I believe we've we've now established the broad parameters of where these essays are going to take us. You'll agree, I'm sure, that it's an ambitious undertaking. The very breadth of it gives me pause regarding a promise made earlier. It may be necessary to include a modest sprinkling of maudlin content after all. But only, and on this I'm firm, in sufficient quantity to inject a bit of that gritty realism so valued in contemporary storytelling. The reader, should he venture further, may also have some questions about the frequent and far reaching asides that I've chosen to include. To this I can only say that I have it on the best of authority, that being my unconscious, that all of these forays are necessary to an adequate portrayal of the multiple sclerosis that is Dan Baker.

These stories represent a work in progress. It's my intention to continue to add to them until I'm satisfied that all relevant factors have been considered and we've gotten to the bottom of this "contentedness" mystery. I would welcome the readers insights or suggestions as to the direction of the inquiry.