Montage Meditation III: RUPTURE, THRESHOLD

CUT 4–The Real calls and I answer. Frames dissolve. My magic mirror becomes opaque.

I left my house to take Drew’s call on the first Sunday of November and went to the local park with my dog, Zipporah. Usually, I stay home during my phone calls with him, secluded in my private space. On the surface, I was excited to catch up with Drew, because I hadn’t spoken to him in awhile. As I sat in the car, I pulled up the Notes app on my phone, where I had copied and pasted my co-hallucinated list of promising clinical trials opening in early 2026, ranked in order of alignment with Jupiterian symbolism. Consciously, this was me “preparing” for the conversation. Unconsciously, my impulse to take this particular call outside my comfort zone was the real preparation. 

Drew called a few minutes before the scheduled start time, which was another rupture in the usual pattern. Typically I would call first, he wouldn’t answer, then I’d text, then we’d both call each other at the same time and not get through, then I’d pause and wait for him to call me back. The conversation lasted slightly over an hour. I glitch, loop, reframe, recalibrate, glitch again, restabilize, and slowly shut the fuck up so I can take in what my brother is saying. This phone call, both with Drew and with the Real itself, showed me the only possible (and the only ethical) orientation going forward: wit(h)ness. Being with as witness. 

Structural Map/Composite/Reconstructed Dialogue (not direct quotes, minus the affect)

Drew: Just to make sure we’re on the same page, can you tell me what you last heard as an update about my illness? 

Me: Yes. I know you’ve been recovering from the second TIL treatment and that it was brutal, but you’re slowly getting better and the BRAF is bringing the tumors down. I know it doesn’t work forever, but it’s still working, so that helps you recover, and then there’s some promising new trials coming up in the spring. Is that right?

Drew: No, unfortunately not. BRAF stopped working recently. 

(glitch—) 

Me: What? I don’t understand how that can be possible. It was just working. What changed?

Drew: The cancer changed. It adapted and outsmarted the drug, which was the only thing keeping the tumors from spreading. 

Me: So what’s the next step? Surgery? Chemotherapy? 

Drew: The next steps are palliative. My doctors told me on Friday that there are no curative options left. 

Me: Well, that’s a major blow, but I mean, we knew there was a possibility they couldn’t fully cure the cancer, and you might have to manage it as a chronic illness. Which, I guess, means that it would eventually kill you, if they can’t fully cure it. 

(repetitions, loops, bending but not breaking the frame) 

Wait, what does palliative mean in this context? 

(the frame wobbles, sways) 

Drew: They can help me manage pain, but no matter what they do, I’ll be dead within six months. The melanoma spread to my muscles and my bones. I can’t play guitar anymore because I can’t use my arm. I can’t go out in public because the tumor on my back is so big, that if someone bumps into me, I’d start bleeding. 

Me: Can they do an operation to get rid of that tumor? Can the spread be reversed ? 

Drew: No. It will get even worse, very quickly. I want to die with dignity in Vermont through their MAID program, and I have to do it before the cancer spreads to my brain and I’m not able to consent. 

Me: Wait… but what about the trials? Aren’t there ones you’re still eligible for, even if it has spread to the bones? Bones still isn’t a vital organ, right? 

(loop—glitch—reset the frame)

Drew: I’m not eligible for anything that could help me in time. 

Me: Wait, wait, pause… didn’t you say that you had six months? There’s a bunch of promising new trials opening up in February, even more in the spring, right? I was reading about this one that has a success rate of more than 40%, slightly higher than TIL. 

(loophole—frame stabilization flail)

Drew: It turns out that “success”in this context means that I would live another two months, and I’d be in hell for the whole time. I’m already in so much pain. The hospital is a prison. 

Me: Do you think you got the best possible care? 

(zoom out, pivot, blame shift mode: briefly attempted)

Drew: No, not at all. It was torture, from start to finish. The truth is, I’m ready to die. I want to die as soon as possible to end my suffering. I’ve already found a doctor in Vermont and started to make arrangements. My first appointment will be right after Thanksgiving. 

Me: (silence)

Drew: (silence, waits)

Me: Are you scared? 

Drew: (laughs) No. I’ve lived a good life. And what’s ahead if I don’t act in time is a really, really bad death. 

Me: Okay. This illness has already taken so much from you. You’ve had enough. 

Drew: Exactly. I know it’s a fast turnaround. But now, making it to mid-December is the best possible scenario. Now, my goal is not to suffer anymore. I’m done. 

Me: Okay. I’m proud of you. I love you. This is the real “Defying Gravity” moment. Resisting foreclosure. 

Drew: Coming from you, that means a lot. I love you too.

(call ends)

• The frame disappears.

• I drive around for an hour, thoughts empty. 

• I sit in my office and stare at the wall. 

• I watch YouTube videos on mute. Still want empty space in my head. 

• I ask my mom to send me any pictures she can find of me and Drew in her scrapbooks. I make an archive. Memories surface. I sit with them. Affect surges. I feel it and let it go, not because I’m a Buddha, but because there’s nothing else I can do. Thoughts remain empty: vibrating remainder only. 

• I start knitting Drew a blanket made of green chenille yarn. Green, because it’s his favorite color; and chenille, because it’s incredibly soft and cozy. I want him to have something he can hold onto and wrap around him. 

• I write Drew a 10-page letter, which I give to him during our final visit 3 weeks later.

• I keep knitting. To let my mind wander while feeling a sense of rightness and justice somewhere in the world, I rewatch Creighton Waters cross-examine Alex Murdaugh during his double murder trial. 

• I deliver the finished blanket to Drew one week before his death on December 10th. 

• Later that night, my mom went back to Drew’s Airbnb to help with the aftermath. She took a photo from Drew’s room, where she found his cat, Loki, still nestled in the folds of the green chenille blanket. 

One more cut and a cross-fade to go.