My Lawyer

The day after my diagnosis I had to call
my lawyer. He'd been impressed that I
managed to get almost $15,000 from my
insurance company, on my own steam
no less, after the collision, so he thought
we had a good chance of winning further
damages. My phone call shot down any
dreams of winning anything. "The doctors
tell me it's MS," I said, to dead silence.
After a long moment, my lawyer said,
"That's, that's terrible. I'm so sorry."
I've always treasured the fact
that he meant what he said; I could tell
by the sound of his voice that he was
shocked and truly sorry, maybe even
almost as sorry as I was. And not
because he wouldn't be able to make
any money off me, because he understood
about the life sentence I'd just been
handed, understood better even that I
did at the time. I actually don't think
I understand it any better all these
years later. But I know I treasure
every intimation of sympathy anyone
has ever shown me, every overt
attempt to revile the senselessness of
the whole thing, every expression of
displeasure with the cosmos for the fact of
my fate. I would like to thank everyone
who's ever been on my team and let me
know it. And I'd like to smother
the rest with pathological indifference,
whatever that does mean exactly.

(2007)