In this new flash essay entitled “Lucky” by Nate Methot, the author takes a hard look at luck. Luck is relative; luck is curated. Luck, good or bad, is a facet of life, but never uncomplicated. With lyrical prose and surprising sentence structure, the examination unfolds. —Court Harler
They said two to five years. It’s been fourteen. I’m lucky.
Nothing and everything changed in an instant. All questions answered in the worst possible way. A death sentence in three words.
It looks differently from here—I know what unfolds. If he could see the years, see the decline, experience the chasm between us, what would he think? It’s been so long—he was barely twenty-seven—is this lucky; am I lucky?
I’ve lost so much, such freedom, hardly have a life of my own—no house, no car, no career, no family—depending on others, once-prized autonomy nearly extinguished. But I’m still nearer beginning than end: I eat, and talk, and stand, and breathe on my own. I’m not supposed to be here at all.
They’re on Instagram, on TikTok, on Zoom, my peers, if that’s what they are. pALS is succinct—people with ALS. They advocate, gain followings, raise money, put their reality on view. They connect and share pain, spreading it out, relieving some pressure, and laugh with the darkness of the terminally ill—laugh at their mutual fucked-ness.
I watch them progress, deteriorate, shrink. They shrink—collapse in on themselves. The cruel metamorphosis unfolds daily, by video. A young father types with his eyes, food port in his belly; an influencer is propped up with pillows, tube in her nose, body transformed into mush. It’s almost too hard to look at the future they tell me is coming. I scroll back to see the before—it’s been just a few years: he’s walking, stumbling forward in an unnerving gait, and she’s gorgeous, sharing the lighthearted ways she tells dates that she uses a cane. Those people are gone, the dichotomy excruciating.
I tried to be one of them for a while, tried to find a place to fit in when I could no longer bear feeling lost and alone. They were pALS, a tragic, darkly unshakable identity and bond—all stages mixed together on my screen: energetic and imperceptible to bedridden and tube fed. Surely, I fit somewhere between, but even here, I couldn’t find the comfort I needed.
I’m a slow burn, one match at a time, another handful of kindling on the way; they’ve been drenched through with diesel and engulfed. Our distance lies in the difference; labeled the same, we’re nothing alike. They have each other, but I have more days. I’m winning.
I’m praised for this. Somehow. I fight harder, care more, have more to live for. I’m mentally tougher. Tenacious.
No. I’m not. I’m lucky.
But I don’t live amongst the pALS. When I roll out my door, I don’t see slumped, unmoving bodies, don’t strain to hear indecipherable speech. No. I see life. I see function and ease and marvel at the wondrous human body. I see the others—whole crowds of others wholly unaware of the pain, blind to my jealous, disconcerted, gaping eyes.
No, I’m not lucky.
NATE METHOT is the author of A Life Derailed: My Journey with ALS, a memoir. He was diagnosed with ALS at twenty-seven in 2011. He lives with his parents in Vermont and writes with a mouse and on-screen keyboard. His memoir, blog, and social media can be found at natemethot.com.
Featured image by Devin Avery, courtesy of Unsplash.
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