Barbarian Invasion

"Les Invasions Barbares" is a Canadian film that I saw a few years ago. It quickly ranked within my top 10 favorite movies. It is the story of a man dying of cancer. His doctor has given him a limited amount of time to live and he gathers around him his loved ones and family. It is a simple plot and a simple movie. It is not visually stunning like my other favorite "Great Expectations." It is not overwhelmingly discouraging and comforting all at once like "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" or heroic like "The Last Samurai" or "Alive" nor refreshingly troubling like "The Mosquito Coast."

In fact, it is sometimes surprising to me that I like this movie so much, but I do. The old man's son is among the group gathering for his death and preparing for it. He is not close to his father, probably because he resents his father for straying from his mother. Also among the group is a fellow college professor, the ex-wife of main character, and 2 of his former lovers. Most of the movie is spent with the characters reminiscing over their pasts and their love of life. Some of the movie deals with the use of heroine for pain. I just love the way they talk of the passions they've shared, the theories they supported or thwarted, the way they viewed love and relationships and how they evolved for each of them.

As I write this portion I'm tearing up because I will soon be visiting a dear friend who is at this time experiencing his own barbarian invasion. He is probably the best person I've ever met in my whole life. H and his wife have been married for 49 years. He built their current home and then built another one onto it for their daughter and her 5 children.

H and his wife took me in when I was 18 and pregnant. I lived with them when I gave up my baby boy for adoption 10 years ago. I remember many times that H stopped and helped someone on their way. I remember him always volunteering at his grandchildrens school. I remember his stories of the military and of moving his family across the nation. I remember his stories of religious conversion. I remember stories of pain. I remember love and concern expressed and oil changed and windshields scraped. I remember sometimes having to shout to be heard and sometimes impatiently hoping he would drive faster. Above all, I am not sure I ever felt more loved in my life than I did then and I owe them everything I am for that.

Tonight my mom called and told me that H's doctor gave him 2 more weeks to live. He has a golf-ball sized tumor in his brain that very little can be done about. I don't know yet what I'll do, but I know I would love for him to see my baby Bailey. I know I would love for him to know how much he means to me.