You ever think about someone who passed, and realized that although you rarely saw them, they were an anchor, someone who moored the foundations of your life, and although little has physically changed in your life with their passing, everything is different, because one of your mooring anchors is gone?
Overheard 3
“I was in my Mom’s room with my sister when Mom died. Mom and Dad lived in a remote area, surrounded by cedars. It was quiet. Mom had been ready to die. She’d actually done checklists. She’d written pages of very precise notes that she wanted done before she died. My sister and I had to do these things, and check them off, and show them to her, to show her that they’d been done.
“When they were all done, Mom said, “Okay, I’m ready to go now.” And she died that day.
“And I remember sitting in the room, and watching this soft blue glow rise from her body and drift out the window, and up into the trees, and on into the sky. It was like watching a puff of smoke, but I’m sure it was her soul.
“When it was gone, I turned to my sister and said, “Did you see that?” She said, “No, but I wish I did, because I could see you watching it.””
Just Made It
You ever go to a restaurant, and find it quiet and with few customers, and then sit and order, and witness a sudden influx of people entering the restaurant and filling up the chairs, the noise level rising with their conversation and laughter?
Or maybe you reach the cashier in a store to make your purchases, and have no line, and then long lines form at all the registers?
These situations cause us to say, “Wow, we timed that right. We beat the rush.”
Traveling, we made it back home on Sunday. The weather served plunging temperatures and several inches of snow that night. “We made it home just in time.”
That thought, that somehow, you beat the crowds, the odds, the norms, the system, by just a little, fires a warm glow of satisfaction. It’s a little less satisfying when you fly home and see someone, and then they die the next day. Sure, there’s still some solace as we tell ourselves, “At least we saw them one more time before they died,” but the glow isn’t as warm nor satisfying.
The Ice Chip
It’s five thirty A.M., and cold and dark. Even the cats are all curled up and asleep.
The telephone connection is amazingly clear. The tension in the hospital room seems as substantial as the phone against my ear.
“She’s gurgling, and sounds wet,” the speech therapist said. “I’m going to see what she can swallow.”
Her voice becomes louder as she speaks to the elderly patient. “I’m concerned about your ability to swallow. Can you lick you lips? Can you lick your lips?”
Holding the phone, I lick my lips in response to the orders on the other end and urge the patient to do the same.
“No? You can’t lick them? No saliva?”
Damn.
“Okay. I’d like to give you an ice chip to see how you swallow. Would you like an ice chip?”
“Yes,” the patient says in a low, weak gravel.
“Yes, I bet you would,” the speech therapist says. “You’re probably pretty thirsty because you haven’t been able to swallow anything for a couple days.
“Can you stick your tongue out for me? Can you put it out a little further? There we go. Good, that’s good. Now, I’m going to put the ice chip on your tongue, okay? There we are. Good. Now take it in your mouth and let it melt. Feels good, doesn’t it? Yes, I bet it does. Don’t let it run out of your mouth okay? Keep it in your mouth.
“Okay, are you ready to swallow? Swallow it for me. Let me see you swallow. Okay, that’s good.”
I hear an odd sound and listen, trying to understand what it is. I imagine the process it takes to let ice melt, and the muscles and passages used to swallow.
The speech therapist’s volume drops to a normal conversational level. “She couldn’t swallow, and I can hear wet gurgling.”
That was probably the odd sound that I heard.
The speech therapist says, “The fluid is going down into her airways. Normally, when that happens, we violently cough. That’s a normal reaction. But she lacks the strength and energy to cough.”
My sister-in-law speaks. “She’s in advanced stages of Parkinson’s, and hasn’t had her meds for several days, because she’s had the flu and pneumonia, and hasn’t been able to swallow. They’re going to insert an NG tube and begin her meds again.”
“Yes, we’d expect to see an improvement in a Parkinson’s patient with their meds, so we’ll try the test again after the NG tube is inserted and her meds are given.”
Thanks are given, and comments about things that will be done later are made. I listen and absorb it, but I remain thinking about the importance of a melting ice chip and swallowing.
Saturday’s Theme Music
My wife and I were driving home when John Mellencamp’s “Authority Song” played on the radio. We knew the song and sang along. It’s from his Uh-huh album. It came out in 1983, when he was John Cougar. We saw him perform a few years later, in Germany.
As the song wound toward its end, my wife said, “This song doesn’t have many words to it, does it?” No, but that’s how a lot of pop songs are, to me. I was thinking more about these lines:
“I said, “Growing up leads to growing old and then to dying
“And dying to me don’t sound like all that much fun.”
The idea that death is bad — or not fun — has been weaponized, something to use keep us in check. “You might get hurt if you do that. You might even die.” Yes, as if we’re all living forever on this world, in these bodies.
I thought, Heaven as a concept must have been invented to comfort people who are dying or has lost someone. I always liked that idea of Heaven, that another place is beyond death where we live on. Maybe it’s like living in this sense in that mythical next existence, but suppose it’s not? Yet, we’re coached and socialized to fear death because this is life.
Come on, we’re all going to die. Life might be a spectrum, and this slice of life is just another frequency band. Thank of how wonderful it could be in the next band.
New Boy
The words weren’t what he wanted to hear. “Your son was in a terrible accident,” the doctor said. “Steven has suffered extensive injuries.”
He stared at the woman, Indian and young, attempting to assess her abilities. Beside him, his wife was hiccuping with sobs. New tears ran down her face. He didn’t know where they came from. He was certain she was cried dry, but no, here were more.
“I’m afraid we’re declaring him medically challenged,” the doctor said next.
That drew his attention.
The doctor said, “I have no choice, Mister Ryan. Your insurance dictates it.”
“What’s that mean?” he said, as his wife echoed, “Medically challenged?”
“Well, to be crude, Mister Ryan, Missus Ryan,” the doctor said, “and use a coarse analogy, if your son was a car, he’d be declared totaled, because it’s cheaper to write him off and give you a check to have him remade.”
Words exploded. He was talking. His wife was talking. The doctor was backtracking and attempting to explain and placate.
It didn’t seem like he heard anything, not even himself. He was saying, “My son is not a fucking car, my son is not a fucking car.” He didn’t know what was coming out.
Then he and his wife were holding one another, shaking and crying, a scene in the hospital. He held her warmth and tried pouring strength into her, but his strength was evaporating.
The doctor said, “It’s not as you think.”
He couldn’t believe she said that. He said, “What?”
Reacting with a speed she’d never exhibited before, his wife lunged for the doctor. Catching her, he held onto her. Her body felt like steel. She dragged him forward. She was saying something, but tear-filled and high-pitched, he couldn’t understand her.
“Heather, Heather,” he said. “Calm down, calm down.”
A foot shorter than him and fifty pounds lighter, Heather dragged him forward. He was forced to lift her until her feet were off the ground. That was the only way to stop her.
“Let me go,” Heather said, “let me go.”
Security showed up.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Ryan said.
The doctor waved security away. A young nurse beside the doctor held a folder out. The nurse looked Indian, too. Were there no white people in medicine any more?
The doctor said, “This package explains everything. You can contest your insurance company and keep your son alive, but unfortunately, not in this hospital. He will need to be moved to another facility. In the meantime, if we harvest his organs, you can make more than enough money to pay off the expected costs, and your policy permits you to keep all the profits.”
“You are sick,” he said. He put his wife down, but held onto her. “You’re all sick.”
“And if you start right away, your son can be done here in five days.”
His wife fell still. “Five days?” Heather said.
He let go of her. “What’s that mean, exactly?”
“You will be able to take your son home in five days,” the doctor said.
“That doesn’t explain anything,” he said. “What’s it mean?”
“It’s explained in these package we’ve prepared for you,” the doctor said.
“I’m asking you,” Ryan said. “What’s it mean?”
The doctor sighed. “It means we’ll grow you a fresh boy, Mister Ryan. He will look and act exactly like your son, Steve. He will be a new boy, for all purposes, but he will be Steve’s age.”
“Like a clone?” Heather said.
“Yes, basically,” the doctor said. “He will have Steve’s knowledge and memories, of course, and the skill levels, talents, and abilities that he exhibited before, but he will have a new body.”
“How?” Ryan said.
“He’s been monitored his entire life, and we have his DNA map,” the doctor said. “So we will grow it. Steven’s teachers have faithfully filled out all required quarterly reports, with videos, and all his test results. You’re lucky that your son is in such a good school system. We also have all his social media records. So we can fully analyze all aspects of his personality and life.”
As he was thinking about what the doctor was saying, and what it meant, his wife said, “Can you…change things?”
“Changes are possible,” the doctor said. “They’re extra, of course, and it depends on what you have in mind.”
“Well, he was always a little slow,” Heather said, with a glance at her husband.
“And can we make him taller?” he said. “Steve’s always been one of the shortest kids in his class. It’d be nice if he was a few inches taller.”
“Of course.” The doctor made a gesture. The nurse made a call. A man in a suit appeared. He was white.
“This is Gary,” the doctor said.
“Hi, Mister Ryan,” Gary boomed, putting his hand out. As Ryan and Gary vigorously shook, Gary said, “I’m sorry about your loss,” and the doctor said, “Gary is a medical sales technician. He’ll walk you through your options and costs.”
As Gary shook hands with Heather, Ryan said, “Thank you, doctor.”
Smiling, the doctor said, “You’re welcome.” She walked away as Gary said, “Let’s go to somewhere quiet. There’s a Starbucks in the hospital. Would you like some coffee or tea?”
“I’d love some coffee,” Ryan said. “It’s been a long night.” His eyes were bright.
A new son. A new boy.
Science was fucking amazing.
Friday’s Theme Music
Closing out 2017, I figure it’s a good time to listen to some old music.
Funny to think of this song, “Reeling in the Years,” as old music. This song was released in 1972, when I was just sixteen. It remains fresh sounding to me. Yet, I know how different it sounds, and I know that Steely Dan broke up long ago, then got back together, and then Walter Becker died. The band’s symmetry is a perfect illustration of how life passes for most of us, with triumphs and struggles, but ultimately, somehow becoming finalized with our deaths. That’s life, in all its glory, cruelty, and normalcy.
Ironic to listen to “Reeling in the Years,” though, knowing one of them no longer reels in the years. I always wonder, is death really that much worse than living? Maybe something else goes on with the energy that is us as the body moulders and fades.
Yes, those left behind find it painful. It’s a hard path to follow, because when others die, we’re forced onto new paths. Some of the paths have only a sight variation, depending on how close we were to the deceased. But sometimes, it’s like we’ve fallen off a cliff and have to pick ourselves up and learn to walk again.
Sorry, off-topic. Let’s get more upbeat. Here’s “Reeling in the Years.”
Knowing
Knowing someone was about to die, and not knowing, but having someone die unexpectedly, made little difference to him, he discovered. The death was a loss he felt, regardless of how much the other’s death was anticipated.
Nor did the quantity of tears shed reflect the pain he felt.
What Else?
He was surprised. She had never spoken of her ex in kind terms. “Why?” he said.
She considered her words. “What else could I do? He was dying. He’d had cancer. I loved him once. We had two children together.”
It had been the third marriage for both, he knew. Each had children from a previous marriage. Lasting ten years, personal sturm and drang struck every day.
Her tired face softened. “He’d asked his children for help. They turned him down. He came to me. He said, “I don’t want to die in a little room alone.” So I took him in, put a bed in the living room, and cared for him until he died.
“What else could I do?”
The Keys
Head wobbling, he looked left and right as much as he could without tipping himself out of his chair. Near immobility was one indignity. It was the least.
“Matthew, do you want a drink?” the man asked him.
He was a pleasant enough man, white and ginger-haired. but otherwise anonymous in Matthew’s world view. He’d been introduced. Matthew hadn’t cared to hear, remember and store his name.
The man was offering a straw and glass. Matthew despised straws. Children drank from straws; he was an adult. He was a man. “No, thank you,” he said. His once sonorous voice chirped, slouched and broke through the three words. He wished he could close his ears and not hear himself any longer. “Where are my keys?” That voice sickened him.
“What do you need your keys for, Matthew?”
What fucking business is that of yours, Matthew thought. “Where are they?”
“Don’t worry, they’re right here.” The man brought him his keys, holding them so they dangled in front of Matthew, like he was a cat or a baby, and the man wanted was playing with him. “Do you plan on taking a ride?”
Fuck you. Forcing his will into movement, Matthew reached for his keys. The limb and hand trembled. His shoulder, elbow and wrist issued warning pains. Reaching for the keys took long seconds, something once done easily and without stress. When his fingers closed on them, Matthew wanted to close his eyes and rest. Tears welled up. Others would think it was pain or sadness. Only he knew it was anger.
Chatting, the man wiped Matthew’s eyes. Matthew didn’t care. He closed his fist on his keys and then closed his eyes. He had his keys. Time to die.
His journey could now begin.
Michael Seidel, writer 