FICTION
Half An Epiphany by Jeanne Holtzman
It all stared with the breast lump. Sure it was cancer, but a rare and wimpy variety. Her oncologist, a Jew from the Bronx, said, "Nisht geferlich. Not so terrible. I've seen worse."
"You're lucky", said the gentile suburban radiation oncologist.
Celia walked away with a scar, all her hair, some pills, and four days out of work. Not even a fruit basket, much less an epiphany.
Still, no one ever used the word cured. That was something.
Her husband and daughter quickly put it out of their minds. Celia looked the same as ever. Hardly anyone else even knew.
But Celia knew. Every morning when she got up, Celia bumped her head on the low ceiling of her mortality. She tiptoed and trudged through each day like it was littered with land mines. After each step that didn't blast her to smithereens, she got down on her knees and kissed the ground. Or she collapsed to the ground in terror. But she did this discreetly, so no one should see.
Of course, she knew what she was supposed to do. Live like you are dying. Make every moment count.
But oy, what a burden! God forbid you should want to play solitaire, or sleep late, or watch Seinfeld reruns or gossip and gripe about your big-shot brother-in-law. You were falling down on the job. Flunking out as the poster girl for breast cancer survivors.
Anyway, live like you are dying when? Tonight? Next week? In two years? It makes a difference. What if, figuring your time is up, you finally tell off your no good, stinking brother-in-law, and then have to live with your sister for years? Is it worth the risk?
Celia snorted. Maybe some people needed the threat of death to get their priorities straight, but not her. Her's were already lined up. For instance, instead of wasting time on ridiculous tasks like cleaning her house, she spent quality time with her daughter, who rolled her eyes and complained that Celia was invading her personal space.
The epiphany thing just wasn't working for Celia. Her knees were taking a beating from so much falling to the ground. She needed help. She searched her drawers, her closets, her memory, for anything she could use as a mine sweeper, or at least a crutch to keep her upright.
She hadn't been a soldier. She had no memories of battlefields. But she had been a hippie. She had memories of muddy fields. She had Woodstock.
And she had seen God.
Of course, she had cheated. She hadn't waited around for God to single her out of the swarming crowd of billions to bless with a vision. Not for her, signing on to a long and uncertain spiritual quest; she wanted instant illumination. She cut in line. She strode past the hopeful hair-shirt penitents, the yogis-in-training, the student seekers and suppliants, and she swallowed transcendence in a tablet, cosmic consciousness in a capsule. She dropped acid.
Celia was totally disintegrated. Morselized. She melted into the universe, became quivering protoplasm, divine being. She belly-laughed at the cosmic joke.
A little of that would come in handy right about now.
But that was decades ago. After the first time she saw Him, God was in a crowd, or she only caught the back of his head, or she had forgotten her glasses. A few times, the glimpse she caught was not of God's better side. Better to not remember that.
She was too old to drop acid. Did anyone even sell LSD anymore? Even so, that evanescent whiff of infinity just wouldn't go away. And she wasn't the only one yearning for the good old cosmic days. Psychedelic nostalgia was spreading the country like crab lice at a commune. Every time she turned on the TV or radio, another old acid head was waxing sentimental about his or her LSD trips. A whole generation of pathetic old hippies who hadn't managed to die young was reminiscing about their glory days and old acid trips.
Celia went down cellar and pulled out moldy tomes from times of more illumination and less laundry. It took awhile before her husband Mike noticed the change in the tilting pile of books next to the bed. He said nothing.
In the following weeks, Mike came home to the strains of Indian Ragas filling their cookie-cutter cape, and found Celia sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, chanting "om". Or burning patchouli incense, listening to downloaded mp3s of Donovan and The Incredible String Band, and reading musty copies of Be Here Now and The Doors of Perception. Or throwing the I Ching. Or signing her e-mail, "Peace" or "Namaste".
One day, Mike waved away the fragrant cloud of smoke surrounding his wife, and approached her carefully. "Celia, honey," he yelled over "Mellow Yellow", "I'm worried about you. You're starting to live in the past."
"Thank you, Dr. Freud," she said, giving him a look that warned, I'm the one who had cancer not you. Then she put on the DVD of Woodstock, got up and noodle-danced around the room.
Her husband dropped onto the sofa, head in hands, and watched her with pity. Her daughter rolled her eyes and left the room.
Celia kept dancing. Sly and the Family Stone sang, "Dance to the Music", and Celia waved her hands in the air, let her loose body jangle, and twirled around. Slowly, Celia's husband got up off the couch and started dancing along side her. Their daughter came to the doorway to see why the house was shaking, and said, "Stop that right now!". But she was laughing.
And Celia danced some more, like Raggedy Anne having a seizure. She flailed her arms, swayed her body, loosened her knees. She hadn't channeled God. She hadn't remembered the punch line to the cosmic joke. But she was laughing, she was joyful. And she was off her knees. At least for now. Nisht geferlich — not so terrible.
Jeanne Holtzman is an aging hippie, writer and women's health care practitioner, not necessarily in that order. Born in the Bronx, she prolonged her adolescence as long as possible in Vermont, and currently lives with her husband and daughter in Massachusetts. Her writing has appeared in such publications as The Providence Journal, Writer's Digest, The First Line, Twilight Times, flashquake and The Iconoclast. You may reach Jeanne at J.holtzman@comcast.net.