Shiva Jukes Their Back Out

A jack of all trades is a master of none, though oftentimes better than a master of one. That’s a caregiver, in a nutshell. Except a caregiver is usually limited to two arms, the righty and the lefty, the dexter and the sinister, which limits how many trades they can exercise at once. Many have 10 articulating fingers, true, and brains that span in a million directions, though all of their capabilities and selflessness is nailed down to a single austere plane, where a pair of clock hands turn on a perpetual axis of time: Everything is the slave of time.

That is why the Hindu God Shiva should be the patron of caregivers. With multiple arms, each with their own purpose, Shiva is the Swiss Army knife of Hindu deities. I don’t want to make light of it, because this is someone’s deity, but I’ve long had a thing for Shiva, ever since I saw him through a shop window on Devon Avenue on the far north side of Chicago, where you can find a mile-long stretch of Indian and South Asian stores and restaurants. One evening, I toddled out of one of them, chewing aromatic fennel seeds, still blissed out from the curry. Have you ever had a spicy curry or a pepper dish that makes you levitate out of your seat? So I’m walking off this incredible meal, weaving between the cars rushing by, because, as Dennis Hopper would say, ‘That cat’s on the curry, man.’

In a glass showcase I spotted a colorful graphic on a sheet of 8.5” by 11”. There was Shiva, red and brightly adorned, with arms fanned out like peacock feathers and holding an array of implements — a sword, a pike, a lantern, a little dancing Pentecostal-type flame, an eye that opened in the palm of a hand — and in another of his hands he holds a blue guy’s head. (A quick search tells me the dripping head belongs to Brahma, who I thought was the head man — no pun intended! He doesn’t look happy about the situation. I’ll read more about this later, but from the grizzly scene and body language, it looks like a domestic.)

What was most beguiling was that Shiva does this all with such a placid, lovely face. It was very matter-of-fact, like Shiva was hanging out the wash. I liked that aspect of him, that he was knocking out some serious work but it was just business as usual, and he was doing it in style, with fine threads and fine face — in fact I just found out I’d accidentally been misgendering him for decades: Sorry, Shiva. So I went in and bought it, and hung it on the wall of my new apartment. I was pretty healthy then.

After a couple of years of those two hands turning on their axis: not so much. The apartment was no longer very tidy. I’m sure you could find dust, plenty of it, and a sinkful of pots and pans because I’d lost the energy to do anything about. My transmission was stuck in multiple sclerosis overdrive, and I did the bare minimum to get from day to day: Basically using one set of dishes and silverware, stretching out the laundry for as long as I could, like that. The handrailing leading to my second-story entrance wobbled now because I leaned on it so much. Shiva himself had fallen on the floor a couple of times and been re-tacked up, but still he had on that same groovy face, and I needed to see that.

There was a couch there in that small living room, a sleeper sofa that was my Oma’s. Man, was it heavy to carry upstairs into the apartment. Often I’d pitch face-first into that couch, still in my leather jacket and clothes, and shoes scuffed on the one side where I dragged my foot. I would dive into that couch and zonk out for hours. If I woke in the middle of the night, the glow of the streetlight outside would stream onto my wall, striped by the half-opened window blinds, and illuminated Shiva above me, coolly and calmly transacting her 24-hour killing spree up on my wall. You can count on some things: death, taxes, Shiva. I looked up and thought, Shiva, come save me. Before I zonked back to sleep.

One of the friends I shared great times with on Devon was a girl I was dating, someday to be my wife.

Even before we were married, as we grew more serious — as my condition grew serious — I watched her grow many extra arms, new ones daily, right before my very eyes, and become a caregiver, doing more things than a person with two arms should rightly be tasked to do. We don’t have kids together, and this was before our vows, before our engagement, when she had no skin in the game. But there was that level of devotion from her, an unfolding a mystery which I didn’t understand. This little Shiva is tough, smart and resourceful, but it’s an even match: multiple arms versus multiple sclerosis. She’s 5-6, I’m 6-2. She’s 140 pounds, I’m 172 — you do the math. So far she hasn’t taken off my head, YET.

So, plot twist, what happens when Shiva gets hurt? When her array of arms is going great guns, but her back weakens and becomes injured? When the daily tasks of dozens of hands go unmet, and pile up? And far worse, when her calm and pleasing visage gets twisted in pain and frustration? That has been the story of our summer. We’ve gotten through this before, and we’ll do it now. I’ve seen this movie before, and Shiva does rise again. She’s already on her way back.

Meanwhile the two hands keep spinning, faster and faster on their axis.