The Death Bed

  Now that I’m lying here on what will probably be my deathbed I’ve realized that nobody ever seems to want to talk about death—the great taboo. Freud was a fool to think it was sex. People talk about sex all the time, but everybody tries to avoid mentioning death, by any means possible. I suspect that this is why I’ve been left here alone, cut off from the world as if death itself were an infectious disease and they might somehow contract it by being in the same room with a dying man.

  What they don’t know or don’t want to admit to themselves is that they have already contracted it, all of them. It’s a genetic disease that has been passed down from parents to their children. They’re in denial, every last one of them and that’s why they avoid me; they know that my fate is theirs, and they can see themselves in my haggard face. To them I’m the ghost of Christmas future. They know they won’t repent or change their lives, and that even if they did, this is a fate they can’t avoid. It’s just a matter of time.

  They pay the nurses well to poke their heads in from time to time and lie to me. “You’re looking good today.” They pay the nurses so that they can continue to turn a blind eye. It is an ignorance they have come to master. It would be better for them if they would see and understand. They should all drag their children away from Saturday morning cartoons and take a family outing to the funeral home, to look at the bodies of all shapes, sizes and colors, and economic backgrounds, all reduced to the same fate. It would be better still if they went to the morgue to see the fresh bodies, before embalming, to see death itself unaltered, and remember every day that this will be their fate also, a momento mori.

  At least it would have been better for me if my parents had taken me to see death, or if I hadn’t turned away from it in Korea when it was grinning at me. I would have looked for meaning. I would have gone to Tibet to live with the monks, and to Calcutta to see Mother Teresa’s orphanage. I would have looked under every rock for joy and suffering—yes suffering too because there is meaning in it. But instead I chased after every comfort that numbed sensation altogether. That seems to be the goal of all people now, to feel nothing at all. That’s the real reason they invented television and medicine. They all think they want to feel joy, to live life to the fullest, but what they’ve learned is that the Buddha was right to say that life is suffering, and they don’t want that. They want comfort over life. They think they’re just trying to avoid discomfort but it’s life they’re really afraid of. They do everything they can to get away from it, to numb all sensation.

  The girl who works at the receptionist’s desk came in yesterday with my painkillers, and when I told her that I didn’t want them she seemed shocked at first then she explained to me, in a condescending tone, that they would make me feel better. Through my wheezing I tried to tell her that they would make me feel less, make me feel nothing at all—they would kill me before my time and I wanted to live, but she must not have understood because she only smiled, laid her hand on my shoulder and said: “They’re FDA approved. They won’t do any harm. Here I’ll help you take them.” And that’s what she did. I don’t even have a choice anymore. I want to feel something and they want me to be just as dead as they are.

  I think it’s because they’re afraid of the living. They prefer to see life on the movie screen because when suffering is right in front of them they don’t know how to handle it. To make it worse they think that anyone who thinks differently is crazy. The woman down the hall doesn’t want to take her medicine either because it makes her feel not like herself, but just like me she doesn’t have a choice. They force her. They don’t say that they force her but they do. People are so convinced that numbness is the only legitimate lifestyle that they won’t let us feel what we want to feel. I want to feel what that boy felt when he was dying for me so quietly. I said he was dying, but he was more alive than I’ve been in years, than I’ve ever been

  I don’t want the pills that make the physical pain go away. I don’t want the television that makes me forget that I’ve lived such a poor life. I don’t want the distractions that make me forget that nobody cares that I’m rotting here all alone. I want to feel the pain in my chest when I cough. I want to feel the loneliness. Does that make me crazy? But I reject any other notion of sanity. I just want to experience something real again at the end of a poorly spent life. If only they would leave me alone to think about death and die the way I want to die. I wish they would let me live even if it’s just for a little while.

  Julia read the pages while Abraham waited patiently.

  “So what do you think?” he asked when she looked up from the clipboard.

  “Momento Mori? Buddha?” Julia asked.

  “I’m not as ignorant as you thought. I’ve had a lot a’ time to read in here. But what do you really think?”

  “I think you’re right grandpa,” she began, “I think you’re exactly right. I’ve been thinking about life lately too, and nothing makes sense to me except this.” Julia held up her grandfather’s clipboard. “I’ve been thinking about life lately because—I don’t know how to say this—because, well, I might have killed something, or someone.”

  “What do you mean by ‘might’ve’? Either you did or you didn’t. There ain’t much grey in a thing like that. Is this person still alive?” Abraham asked.

  “No, this person isn’t still alive,” Julia confessed.

  “An’ was it somethin’ you did that made it so this person ain’t alive anymore?” Abraham showed no signs of compassion, and Julia shuddered before answering him.

  “Yes, it was because of something I did.”

  “Then it sounds a lot ta me like you killed him.”

  “So what should I do, grandpa?”

  “Well it looks ta me like you can either turn yourself in an’ take the prison time that the court gives you, or you can try ta cover it up an’ live all the days a’ your life carryin’ that secret ‘round with you until you end up in this bed where I am, an’ then you can lay here awake at nights an’ think ‘bout how you lived all those years carryin’ that burden an’ what it would’ve been like if you hadn’t. But maybe you won’t be lucky like me. Maybe nobody will come by ta listen ta you confess, an’ you’ll be there tryin’ ta tell the nurse ‘bout what you done but she’ll just listen politely, which really means she’s not listenin’ at all.”

  “But the kind of killing I did isn’t illegal,” Julia said, not wanting to address the second option that her grandfather had described to her.

  “Don’t tell me you’re all conflicted over killin’ some animal.”

  “No it was a human,”

  “Well was it in self-defense?’

  “No.”

  “Then how wasn’t it illegal?”

  “Because it was a baby, not even a baby. It was just a fetus so it wasn’t illegal. I was . . . I had an operation.”

  The tired old eyes looked at her intently as they lay there in that bed. The television, muted, still flickered images in the background.

  “Is it wrong, Grandpa? Is what I did wrong? I don’t care if it’s legal I just have to know if it’s wrong.”

  “I don’t know why you think I’m an expert on this sort a’ thing. Ask some an’ they’ll say yes; ask others an’ they’ll say no. I know what I used ta think, but I’m not even sure ‘bout that anymore, an’ even if I was that doesn’t matter a hill of beans. You’ve got ta decide for yourself. You can’t let anyone else tell you what’s wrong fer you. What do you think? Was what you did wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Julia said, almost believing herself.

  “Hearin’ you talk it sure sounds like you do,” Abraham said callously.

  “I feel an emptiness inside, and it won’t go away no matter what I do.”

  “I know all ‘bout feelin’ empty inside,” Abraham said.

  “How do you live with it? How do you live knowing that you have blood on your hands? Or if I don’t have blood on my hands it at least feels like I do,” Julia said barely manag
ing to fight back sobs.

  “Just like everybody else with problems, one day at a time. Everybody’s done wrong, an’ here you are, all in a bind over somethin’ you think might’ve been wrong. So don’t go blubberin’ like you’re the only one who’s got somethin’ weighin’ on their conscience.”

  “I’m going to make up for it,” Julia said resolutely. “I’m not going to live the rest of my life with this guilt. I’m going to help people and live a good life from now on.”

  “An’ you really think that even if you don’t forget ‘bout living a good life, an’ you do what you think you’re goin’ ta do, you really believe the guilt will go away?”

  “I don’t know. I mean I think so. I hope so.”

  “Good luck then.”

  Julia interpreted her grandfather’s tone to be one of finality. She got up to leave but stopped at the door.

  “Does it go away?” she asked.

  The tired old eyes that looked back at her conveyed a heavy sadness.

  “Will you come with me?” she asked.

  “Go where?”

  “I don’t know but I don’t want to go out alone. I’ve felt like I’ve been alone ever since . . . for a long time now. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

  “You can take me ta my storage shed. I want ta look through all a’ my old stuff. I’ve got pictures and memories in there that I want ta see one more time.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Julia said and helped Abraham to detach all of the cords, hoses, and sensors that held him captive in that bed. He looked like a fish caught in a net, but Julia managed to free him from the tangled mess, and afterwards she helped him stand up. He had a hard time walking at first, but his legs hadn’t completely atrophied. With Julia’s help he managed to get through the door and into the hallway. He leaned on the white wall, and with Julia’s help he staggered down the hall, slowly making his way to the front door. Julia held on to her grandfather tightly, as she helped him forward.

  “What are you doing? You can’t take him out! He could die out there!” Susan exclaimed when she saw the pair making their way outside.

  “He could die in here too,” Julia answered. “It’s not like all those cords are what’s keeping him alive at this point. The doctors are just as baffled as anyone about his condition. For all we know some fresh air might help him get better.”

  Susan didn’t seem to be buying Julia’s argument.

  “This isn’t a prison. We’re goin’ out one way or the other,” Abraham said in a steady voice.

  Susan pushed the button on the receptionist’s desk that unlocked the door. The mechanical door slowly opened on its own initiative, and Julia and Abraham walked out of the building and into the sunlight.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes after Thomas and Jessica got out of Dr. Bowman’s class they were sitting on Thomas’s bed sharing childhood memories. Thomas went on for some time about the antics he and his friends had pulled when he was growing up. Jessica listened and seemed to be amused, but at the same time was unmistakably aloof.

  “What was growing up like for you?” he finally asked.

  “I grew up with my uncle after my parents died,” Jessica began. “He was a decent man but didn’t have much ‘self-control’, and living with him was difficult.”

  Thomas wanted to ask Jessica how her parents died and what she meant by “self-control” but resisted his curious urge and listened.

  “I guess that’s why I grew up calloused toward the notion of true love and all of that other idealism that most of the girls around here still have. When you’ve gone through all that you’re only interested in surviving—and forgetting. I wish someone would hurry up and invent a pill that could make us forget. That would be a stronger painkiller than anything else on the market, if we could all just forget everything we’ve done and everything we’ve been through.”

  “You wouldn’t want to forget me?” Thomas asked.

  “Of course not. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Jessica said, and she sat up to hug his neck and kiss him on the cheek.

  “What if you had the choice to forget everything bad, but you had to forget all the good too. If you could wake up tomorrow morning and not remember anything at all, would it be worth it to forget?”

  “In a heartbeat. In my case there aren’t exactly a lot of good memories to lose,” Jessica answered.

  “I wouldn’t ever want to forget you,” Thomas said putting his arm around her.

  “You don’t know what it’s like. You can’t understand because you’ve never been through all of that,” Jessica said, and pulled away from him.

  “I would if you’d tell me. Why can’t you just say it plainly so I can understand? I want to understand; I want to share everything with you.”

  “That’s exactly what I like about you. You don’t understand. I wish I didn’t. You can still go through your life hoping to make the world a better place, but all of that seems impossible and cliché to me because I understand. I’ve seen what this world really is, and I know that no matter what I do it’s never going to be anything but what it is. Even though you like the idea that ‘good’ and ‘better’ can’t exist without universal standards, you still hope to see a better world—if that makes any sense. What it comes down to is that you don’t understand, and so you can still be passionate about life. Why would I tell you all of the horrible things that go on in real life to real people? I love you because none of that stuff has touched you. You’re like a little sliver of a dream that exists outside reality. And I hope that reality doesn’t ever catch up to you, because as long as it doesn’t I’ll have something to hold on to.”

  Thomas didn’t say anything, and Jessica leaned into him so he could hold her again.

  * * *

  “It’s really cold out here grandpa. Are you sure you want to do this now? If you caught a cold or something it might be enough to, you know.” Julia was legitimately concerned for the health of her grandfather as they sat in the parked Mustang. Julia had left the windows up and the heater on to block out the bitter wind that blew in the world outside the car.

  “Bodies weren’t made ta live forever. We try to make ‘em, but we’re really just hidin’ from death. I’m done hidin’ an’ I’m not afraid anymore. It’ll come fer me when it’s good an’ ready, an’ there’s not much left I can do now ta postpone it. I’ve just got some stuff I want ta do ‘fore it gets here.”

  Abraham was resolute so Julia didn’t object.

  “At least put on my jacket,” she said and took it off to hand it to the aging man. She got out of the car, walked around to open his door, and helped him out. The icy winter air nipped at her bare arms, making her all the more glad that she had given Abraham her jacket. Soon the two of them were standing at the locked door of Abraham’s storage unit. The wind whipped around them as Abraham fumbled with the key, trying to turn it in the lock.

  “Let me,” Julia said, and after jiggling the key got it to turn. She took the lock off and slid the huge doors apart to open the unit. The concrete floor was littered with hastily stacked boxes and other knickknacks that had fallen into the spaces between the leaning cardboard towers. Julia didn’t hesitate to step into the chaotic mess and get out of the wind. Abraham wasn’t as quick to follow.

  “What’s the matter?” Julia asked. “Come in and get out of the wind.”

  “The cold don’t bother me so much as the memories. It’s easier ta be cold out here than ta have ta go in an’ face all a’ that,” Abraham said pointing to the disarray inside the storage unit.

  “Get in here, Grandpa,” Julia said and took him by the arm and led him into the shelter. She slid the double doors part way shut to block out as much of the wind as possible without shutting themselves in completely.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked again, beginning to regret having brought her grandfather out on such a cold day.

  “I’ve been puttin’ this off fer a long time. Fer s
o long that I’d all but convinced myself that I wouldn’t ever get ‘round ta it,” Abraham said, and opened the first of the cardboard boxes.

  “Get around to what?” Julia asked.

  “Ta goin’ through all a’ this an’ takin’ an honest look at what I did with my life, how I wasted it all on stuff that doesn’t matter, all this junk. Look, all my life is here wastin’ away, completely forgotten in this little cell.”

  Abraham started to say something else, but he lost his train of thought as he looked at the contents of the box he had just opened.

  “I thought you an’ Lewis were goin’ ta come an’ get this?” Abraham said as he pulled an old rifle out of its place in a worn out cardboard box.

  “I meant to bring him, but we never got around to it. I didn’t have enough time,” Julia said sheepishly.

  “Let me tell you,” Abraham began in a didactic tone that Julia would have tuned out if it had come from anyone else. “There are some things in this life that you just have ta get ‘round ta. An’ it might be that you have ta make time fer them. Time won’t start fallin’ into your lap until you’re too old an’ decrepit ta do anythin’ with it. If somethin’s really important ta you you’ll make time fer it.”

  “What do you mean grandpa?” Julia asked.

  “You make time ta go ta school don’t ya?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’ve made school a priority ‘cause you feel like it’s an obligation. When you woke up you could’ve come here or gone ta school, an’ when you decided ta go to school ‘stead of coming out here you made school a higher priority. An’ that was probably the right decision, but people always have time fer the stuff they really want ta do. The line ‘bout not havin’ enough time is just a way that they lie ta themselves, so they can feel better ‘bout what kind a’ person they are, or at least put off feelin’ bad ‘bout it.”

  “I’m glad that we came here,” Julia said, breaking off Abraham’s monologue.

  “Me too.”

  “Do you want me to take the rifle to Lewis? I can do it without anyone knowing, and we could hide it under my bed or up in the attic.”