Morris Friedell's Home Page

(rev. 2/25/10) 

On February 3 I turned 70.  I feel like I'm on the other side of a milestone.  I wrote some reflections and celebrated with family. 

I live alone in Houston. I have two children and seven grandchildren. My first career was being a sociology professor–I retired 16 years ago. One of my main interests was arguing for the reality of human dignity as opposed to pessimistic views of human nature such as that we are pawns of biology or society. An understanding of human dignity and of the weaknesses in humanity and society that obscure it could help us build a better world. I like Barack Obama's optimism, although sadly I've come to question his judgment. 

An important strand of evidence for human dignity is the heroism that is sometimes shown in transcending adversity to manifest humanistic values such as generosity, responsibility and self-expression. I used dramatic examples in my course--like Viktor Frankl who survived Auschwitz to write Man’s Search for Meaning. Part of me envied people like Frankl who had a dramatic story to tell. Life hadn’t been easy for me – as a child I was clumsy and socially inept –I married a powerfully creative but borderline and histrionic woman who turned out to be abusive to our children (she's dead now) – some drama there, yes, but all too painful.

In 1998 disturbing weaknesses in following conversations, remembering and problem-solving led me to get a "working diagnosis" of early Alzheimer’s disease. I finally had "material" for my own story. My second career could be "dementia activist." I could, in my way, emulate Frankl, enabling David Shenk, in his bestselling The Forgetting, to write: "Before being taken prisoner by the Nazis, Frankl wrote extensively about the human ability to retain dignity under extreme conditions. Then, in the concentration camp, he faced the ultimate personal test of his own ideas. Now, after years of studying him, Morris was echoing Frankl’s life. In the freezing, foodless, lice-ridden barracks of Auschwitz, Frankl survived and maintained his dignity. Morris wondered if he could do the same as he was thrown into the dark cave of forgetting."

Twelve years later my mind works slowly, is easily overloaded and fatigued by complex interaction with the environment in real-time (games, conversation, etc.). This is consistent with the bitemporal hypometabolism in my brain PET, but it is not certain whether pathology is present, or whether the possible pathology is Alzheimer’s or microvascular.  Regardless, my work and that of others has affirmed that the lessons learned from spiritual resistance to the Holocaust by persons like Frankl apply as well to the trauma of dementing disease. The Nazis’ idolization of biology has again been found wrong.

In 2007 my wife Andrea and I saw Away from Her, the award-winning film about Alzheimer’s and relationships starring Julie Christie.  I was blown away when she quoted from The Forgetting my line, "Sometimes there is something delicious in oblivion." It was a thrill to hear these and other words from my life coming from a famous actress.  I had had no idea.  Part of the thrill was sharing this with Andrea and thus celebrating some of the best of our experience together. 

But is really true that "sometimes there is something delicious in oblivion"? Absolutely! But there are other truths as well. I want to learn them, but not forget oblivion.  "We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it," says the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. I like that attitude.

For some years now I have moved away from being a dementia activist.  I don’t want to be a "professional survivor." I want to do something different. "Where do I go from here?" I've asked myself.  Frankl says the meaning of life is found in experiencing, achieving, and bearing suffering with dignity. My books, journals, essays and photographs are, in a way, the record of what I have experienced and achieved in my 70 years.   Although they haven't been especially sprawling or messy they somehow nevertheless felt like clutter that weighed me down.  Last year I decided to seriously prune them.  I found a book that "spoke to my condition," Julia Morgenstern's When Organizing Isn't Enough: SHED Your Stuff, Change Your Life.  She writes, "It takes courage and a little bit of faith to release the past and fling yourself toward a better (if ambiguous) future, but the rewards are effective and profound."  Sounds good.

Compared to the average person my age my long-term memories are wispy.  It takes unusual intensity to energize my retrieval mechanism.  My story has sort of become a Cliff's Notes version but adorned with vivid illustrations (the so-called "flashbulb" memories).  Discarding a memento makes me feel as if my metaphorical island has crumbled some more.  Still, I do value the faith and courage Morgenstern writes of.  And besides, no one, as she says, lets go into a vacuum.  You can choose provisional "themes" to guide a journey of self-discovery into an unknown future.   One theme can be self-discovery, itself.                                           

Absolutely, I didn't want to be an elderly person set in his ways, clutching his memorabilia and his "wisdom"!  No, I wanted the freedom to keep a spirit of romance alive in my life and in my marriage.  Re the latter, Andrea and I read Esther Perel's Mating in Captivity which affirms that exciting and poetic sex is possible in long-term relationships.  Perel is the daughter of Holocaust survivors, and was inspired by her parents' exuberant affirmation of life and love when it easily could have been otherwise.

                        - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Sadly, Andrea filed for divorce last August.  Since then I have spent a lot of time reviewing our seven-year relationship.  I've asked myself what I could have done differently, not to blame myself, but to use a misfortune as an opportunity for growth.  For one thing, I've seen how I seriously delayed in thinking through the caring I wanted from Andrea and respectfully asking her for it.  

Also, in hindsight, we should early on have had deep thoughtful discussions regarding money, but I didn't know how to do that without sounding like I was interviewing Andrea for a job (which wouldn't have been a good approach).   Besides, I had a tendency to avoid "getting my hands dirty," financially speaking -- partly from fear of ineptness and partly from misguided idealism.  I've learned some lessons.  

                        - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

For over fifty years I’ve had a love-hate relationship with religion. Can religions be reformed to retain their emotional appeal but eschew superstition and violence? Due to my ethnicity I’ve particularly asked this question of Judaism, but I think that with other religions the issues are much the same.

Quests to find a core of goodness in Jewish tradition are themselves a part of the tradition. Here’s a legend from the Talmud:

A noble attempt but too minimal.  Suppose we add Micah 6:8:

Micah's addition of kindness and receptiveness to Hillel’s ethic of justice feels better, but I'm still not satisfied.

Recently I got the idea of adding the 23^rd psalm:

Now I do feel satisfied! ("I shall not want.") The theology implicit in the 23^rd psalm makes Micah 6:8 an essentially complete ethics of life and happiness!

But how can I keep this formulation from becoming a dogma? Drawing on the 12-step programs’ "act as if" and Gandhi’s idea of an "experiment in truth" I get:

I see here a spirituality with emotional depth and richness, without dogma and superstition, and with a firm but gentle discipline ("Thy rod and Thy staff") rather than threats and violence. 

I see here a kind and gentle God who lives in the heart and the imagination and, unbeknownst to me then, wept with me when I was an unhappy child and sent messengers to give me solace. 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

If interested, read about My Alzheimer's Struggle.

mailto:MorrisFF@aol.com