The Catastrophist

Lauren Gunderson

• Editorial: Methuen Drama
• Año: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781350289109
• Edición: 1
• Categoría: Literatur
• Categoría: Amerikanische Dramaturgie

Honestly the best science I've ever done and - frankly the best science in the history of humankind - has started with the same thought experiment: find the ways in which humanity thinks it is special… and assume that we're not. How do you plan for a catastrophe? Virologist Nathan Wolfe, named one of TIME's 100 Most Influential People in the World for his work tracking viral pandemic outbreaks, proposed pandemic insurance years before the novel coronavirus outbreak. No one bought it. Now, in a post-COVID world, we hear his story. A time-jumping tale based on the life and work of Nathan Wolfe (who also happens to be the playwright's husband). Though not a play about COVID19, it is a true story of a pandemic expert. A deep dive into the profundities of scientific exploration and modern Judaism, the lengths one goes for love and family, the bracing truths of fatherhood and discovery, and the harrowing realities of facing your own mortality, The Catastrophist is also a story of a main character battling the story he's in... and who is writing it.

Scene Twenty-Two: Hospital

“Hospital” is visible to the audience and to him again, demanding to be seen.

I go to a GI specialist to ask why my heartburn was suddenly so bad.

Which turned into him saying “this is not GI; you may want to see a cardiologist.”

Which turned into a cardiologist running one test and saying, “you are not going home until we get you into surgery.”

Because the major artery to my heart—it seems—is fully blocked.

One hundred percent.

Like so many men in my family before me at exactly
my age.

Every push of a swing, every hike up a hill, every moment that I thought my acid reflux was acting up and I got mad at my body for slowing me down,

every one of those moments could have been the moment I collapsed on the sidewalk.

In front of my boys.

In front of my wife.

And died.

All the things I didn’t get to say.

All the things I did.

All the things.

The young resident shows my wife and I the picture of my heart.

This guy says, “we call that artery there, the one that’s blocked, we call it ‘the widowmaker.’”

My wife, the presumptive widow, was not amused.

I get mad, I pepper this kid with question after question after question.

This is how I handle everything; I hate unanswered questions, but I hate shitty answers more.

The guy gets so frustrated with me that he eventually just blurts out:

“I don’t know, every single other x-ray of a heart that looks like yours belongs to a dead man.”

He breathes in, slow and full.

So. Here. We. Are.

“Final Scene” is visible to him somewhere.

He wants to fight it but doesn’t. Accepts, perseveres, faces the truth.

I am in surgery now.

Under anesthesia.

Right now this is happening,

which must be how any of this is happening.

He gets it now.

Huh.

My wife would like you to know that she is writing this because I can’t.

This is how she handles the world.

In story.

And so she is in charge.

Of mine.

He is grateful. He doesn’t know how to say it.

They’re putting a small balloon in my blocked artery and it will gently inflate,

the blockage will release,

a metal stent will be left behind that will keep the tube open so I can . . .

live. I hope.

While I’m in surgery my wife is at home with my two-year-old

and my two-month-old.

And I think that I might not know them at all.

I mean the little guy, he’s two months old.

If I die in this procedure, if it doesn’t work, if something goes wrong my little boy will not know me.

I will leave him with

Nothing said.

I will just . . . leave.

My wife would like you to know that while I am in surgery she is planning what she will tell our boys if I die.

My wife would like you to know that she is worried that our youngest will eventually hate his older brother because the older would have more pictures with me.

My wife would like you to know that she doesn’t know if I want to be cremated or buried.

My wife would like you to know that she is equal parts terrified and mad as hell.

My wife would like you to know how furious she is at my general practitioner for not telling me to go for a chest exam sooner. How could he ...