I was talking to my father’s nephew just now, his brother’s son, my first cousin.   We got on to the subject of how much a person can change himself.   It was triggered by my comment that I sometimes think I should drop a quick note to that arrogant nephrologist I battled when I was first trying to find out how best to treat this kidney disease with no known cause.  I thought I might send her what she should have said to me, a very simple sentence or two, instead of constantly arguing, that it might help her going forward.

“She wouldn’t change,” he said confidently.  “That type acts that way out of hardwiring and lifelong practice.  Your most generous, eloquent letter would have no effect on her behavior going forward.  Why waste your time?  You certainly don’t owe her anything.” 

I reminded him of the endless argument my father and I had about whether, and how much, people can truly change themselves.   I said I’ve come to realize that clearly there is no yes or no answer to the question, people do make tremendous changes all the time, while certain predispositions are no doubt hardwired, easy goingness, a proneness to frustration, etc.   He made a profound point. 

 “Self-awareness and an ability to step outside yourself, a certain philosophical detachment, are necessary before you can change.  There is a predisposition for those traits too.”   

Goddamn, I thought, and I said “that’s a profound insight.”   

My sister once despaired to me that she realized she had become the D.U.  I was alarmed, told her immediately that she had to work on it, that it was within her power to change that.   

 “No,” she said, “that’s the essence of being the D.U.– there is no possibility of change.”   

“Well, you see, Elie,” said the skeleton of my father, “they’re right.   You, for whatever reason, were born with an ability to, eventually– and luckily for you you’ve lived long enough so far–  recognize things you do that harm you, and people around you, and to act a different way.   Not to say, of course, that you’ve figured everything out, or have a contented life or anything like that, I mean, you’re still subject to most of the same torments and everything, but you’ve learned to eliminate certain things that caused you a lot of pain.  You’ve come  a bit closer to really knowing what is hateful to you and not doing it to others, much closer than I ever could.”   

Not a very high bar, dad.   

“Admittedly,” said the skeleton.  A hawk screeched, or maybe it was another kind of raptor. 

“I can’t help you with that, Elie,” he said looking up toward the circling bird.  “Though I was a country boy, I don’t know a hawk from a falcon, an oak tree from a maple.”   

How little any of us actually know, I thought to myself.