Shattered Days
In the spring of 2002, Ben was a new dad and struggling artist. If he wasn’t preparing for an audition, or rehearsing for a play, he was writing, locked up in a room for days. I blamed his thinning hair and unhealthy pallor on not enough sleep or too many cigarettes. Clues drifted into our lives disjointed, fragmented. Perhaps he was trying on a new role when his words slurred or his head moved at awkward angles when he ate. His voice roughened because he had to shout in his last play. Diminished muscles in his hands could be the result of too much writing or typing. Weight loss reflected poor eating habits. Nothing more. I remember caring for Ben’s two year old son John one summer morning while he went to the doctor for a check up. That was the first I knew that he was having difficulty using his laptop or a pen. Auditions were not going well because his voice sounded raspy. Afterwards, we met crowded around a small table at a sandwich shop for lunch. Ben dipped his hea...