I lay in bed, and in my head, I thought of death and dying.
My name is of no importance, but I am not ashamed to reveal it. I was named for my grandfather. I'm Myron Cronin 3rd. Just call me Myron. My middle name is Aloysius, let's keep that a secret.
When I first became ill, it was an effort even to get out of bed. My condition quickly became critical. The year was 1987.
What was wrong with me? I pray none of my readers ever experience what happened to me. In brief, two tumors had grown inside my brain. Probably they were developing slowly for many years, before I realized something was wrong.
One tumor had put pressure on the pineal gland, and the result of this pressure was an inadequate supply of melatonin. This interfered with my ability to sleep or wake. It also increased my sensitivity to light. Another tumor on the other side of my brain was pressing against the Pituitary gland. I was suffering from dizziness and nausea. My vision was failing, and I was experiencing an unexplained weight gain.
I was plagued with painful headaches that made me want to cut open my skull and pluck out the offender. I was soon diagnosed with diabetes due to the destruction of part of the pituitary. I was fortunate the tumors were not cancerous as brain cancer is terminal. In my case I could live on for years, in great pain, with no end in sight. People who saw me said I was as pale as a ghost. To say I was contemplating suicide, would be an understatement.
My father and his father had died at the age of 43 and 45, supposedly from heart attacks, but not before they had purchased a fair amount of prime Manhattan Real Estate. Contrary to those who think New York City real estate is golden, the fact is, residential real estate appreciates very slowly. My grandfather had started acquiring real estate in the early nineteen hundreds, always paying cash. The properties had a hundred years to appreciate; the increase in value was significant and more than adequate.
My birthday was last Wednesday. I was 44. Would I die early like my father and grandad? I had married my childhood sweetheart in my early twenties. My wife and I had two children; a girl, Hypermia, and a boy Ralph, whom we lovingly called Yemim. Once they were born, I purchased a comprehensive life insurance policy, so should I follow my progenitors' path, my wife Claudette and our children would be cared for.
Yenim was in his first year of college and appeared to be most interested in science. Research or medicine, he hadn't yet decided. Hypermia was an intelligent and skilled artist. She wrote stories from the time she was eight years old and had published two short stories in the New Yorker Magazine at the age of fifteen. When Hypermia wasn't writing, she was smearing canvas with great swatches of color.
Since the two Myrons did not believe in borrowing money, their fortune progressed slowly. Our family was a "small fry" in the property business, but they avoided the market swings, bankruptcy, and the depression of 1929 due to the nature of their cash investments. The Myrons were unlike the highly leveraged real estate barons of 1950-70, such as Zeckendorf, the older Fred Trump, and Leona Helmsley. Leona took over her husband's ten billion dollar empire but refused to tip the doorman. The industry joke is that he refused to show her his tip and if he had, well, you can fill in the blanks.
We live in the building my grandfather purchased in 1921. It was designed in the soothing Art Nouveau style. Our apartment is furnished with period mahogany furniture with french curves and polished brass inlay, and the walls are covered with period artwork. All were imported from France at a time when one expected perfection and fine craftsmanship.
After the Second World War, my dad traveled to Paris to attend an auction where he purchased a painting attributed to Manet. It was supposedly one of a series of prototypes entitled "A Bar at the Folies-Bergère" with the beautiful barmaid in the portrait looking straight at the viewer. A committee from the MOMA examined the work and cast doubt on whether it is real or a forgery. On the plus side, the word "Jobarde" was observed on the wooden stretcher's back, a clue to provenance found on most of Manet's canvases. Also the initials EM, hid under the canvas were discovered when the work was restretched.
I don't care if it is real or fake. I love it. I feel a degree of mutuality with Manet. He was ill for many years, in pain, and yet continued to create his wonderful paintings until his early death. Although towards the end of his life, he could not easily walk or stand, he painted while seated. Manet's motor coordination of his hands and arms remained, while that of his legs abandoned him.
Manet painted his epic ground-breaking scandalous portrait "Olympia" of his model and mistress Meurent. The portrait of a nude mistress awaiting a sexual liaison provoked scandal. The "Barmaid" in my portrait is fully dressed and was one of Manet's last works. It hangs on my bedroom wall. The model was Suzon, who worked at the Follies in the early 1880s. She stands behind a bar table with liquors and even a bottle of Bass Beer, but a dish of oranges identified her as a prostitute. Most of the barmaids doubled as sex workers. Behind her are hundreds of the public in the theater's galleries.
The absence of Manet's gilt signature on the front of the painting was common in his early drafts. Manet would produce as many as five preliminary paintings before arriving at final work. Only the final copy was signed. I like to think the painting is an authentic preliminary.
I admit that our apartment is quite opulent. We have seven bedrooms and nine baths and occupy three upper floors in one corner of the building. On a clear day, we can see this lovely green oasis all the way from 58th Street to 110th Street.
There are interconnecting staircases between the apartment's day and night sections and large picture windows along the flights. I converted one of the larger bedrooms, nearest the living room, into a billiard room. I had played since I was a child, winning best of age-group at the YMCA several times and eventually placing 8,6, and 3rd in several all-city wide tournaments. Of course, in my current condition, playing is out of the question.
Nothing can be built in front of us; our view cannot be obstructed. When constructed in 1910 by the architect Lorenzo Comenacci, the building was a moderately tall construction, ten stories high. Today our building is dwarfed by modern slender needle buildings built nearby. These modern structures rise on a small base to reach beyond safe boundaries. They remind me of the magnificent Italian towers of the 11th century, few of which are still standing. I doubt our building will last one thousand years. In New York City, everything is torn down and rebuilt when reconstruction is less expensive than rehabilitation.
Our family trust rented the building until 1963 when the building was renovated and was converted to a condominium. The tenants were given the first chance at purchase and almost all rushed to comply. I wasn't pleased with the idea, and the upward movement of luxury rental prices proved me correct. The value of those condos is now twelve times the original cost to the purchasers.
We do manage the building, and that is a small source of income. Except for several low story rentals we still own, the rest of the building is occupied by owners.
Before my illness, I had supervised our apartment's remodeling. I even repaired some of the stained glass Tiffany windows. My wife had childlike fantasies of working in a soda fountain. Adding a soda fountain with an ice cream machine and an extra bathroom off the kitchen almost finished me. The permits for that project were unending. That effort was a surprise for her and the kids. I'd bought her a 1950's waitress outfit with a red hat. At least that work is done. I no longer had the energy to continue, I stopped. Fun and games were all behind me. We celebrated, but little did I imagine, doom lay ahead.
Like the artist Manet, whom I much admire, my health was deteriorating. The tumors had affected my vision and my walking. I now required a cane and moved hunched over like a man of ninety, shuffling with an unsteady gait. The surroundings were confused by my double vision. It was as if, instead of spectacles, I was looking through mirrored prisms.
Of course, Manet was dying of syphilis long before penicillin was discovered to be a cure. He became a guinea pig for a large assortment of treatments, including primitive useless electronic cures, mercury forced into the penis (which leads to blood poisoning), and special homeopathic baths, none of which were productive. Manet's fascination with his models, who were also prostitutes, probably led to his downfall. The cost of pleasure turned out to be syphilis. While he awaited a cure, penicillin, he died. The drug was unavailable until the 1940's. I, too, was waiting for some miracle to make me whole. There was none on the horizon, until Hiroko arrived.
The Archbishop of New York City, related to my wife's family, suggested that she contact a natural herbalist named Hiroko, a massage expert. Hiroko was of Japanese origin. Although I never asked her age, her fragility indicated she was advanced. Before she began, she'd ask me to drink a foul-tasting medicinal tea that she said would strengthen my immune system.
While she massaged me, we spoke. She told me she was trained to be a Geisha and had mastered all aspects of massage just before World War Two began. When the Americans unleashed the Atomic Bombs, Hiroko was doing a study on a unique variety of lichen with medicinal qualities on the island of Kagoshima, one of the most remote of the 6500 islands that comprise the Japanese archipelago.
Hiroko attended a post-war conference in Tokyo where she demonstrated various massage techniques. She so impressed the dean of a famous American Medical School that he invited her to teach a summer class. The school booked passage on a cruise liner. Dr. Wantanabi, a world-famous botanist and herbalist, was on the same ship. He was familiar with Hikoko's treaties on the Lichen of Kagoshima.
Once the two met, they were instant friends. They played mahjong for the entire ten days while conversing. The day before they disembarked at San Francisco, the aged doctor asked her to be his assistant and to carry on his business at his death. In the 1960's she transferred a branch of the company to New York.
Hiroko had several masseuses in the firm, but she seemed to take a particular interest in my case. The doctors had given up on me. My personal physician, Dr. Monat-Bene, had warned me that my time might be short and suggested I get my house in order. I was taking a handful of pills at the time with no visible benefit. He still prescribed for me, but Hiroko asked me to discontinue western medications. I decided to follow her advice as the only improvements in my condition appeared to be due to her efforts. I kept receiving prescriptions, but I ceased to fill them.
Hiroko would bring me diverse teas made from exotic funghi. Although they were unpalatable, I was desperate. I would have drunk hemlock if she'd suggested it. After I drank the tea, she would massage my body. To look at her, one would have thought she did not have the strength to give an hour massage. But her hands were powerful. With each passing day, my health seemed to be improving. I was able to walk to the nearest bathroom and stopped using a bedpan. My vision was still lacking but the double vision would come and go. The teas seemed to be effective.
The massages were helpful. At the conclusion Hiroko would ask permission and manipulate my genitals. I was pleased to be able to ejaculate. In my current state of health I felt emasculated. After thirty days in her care, Hiroko approached me one morning with a grey clamshell filled with a white liquid that shone against the bright jewel- like interior of the shell."
