 by Dr. Jeffrey Lant Author's program note. He waited a spell before he said it, no doubt carefully looking for just the right moment to tell me, knowing that the intelligence would be unwelcome, even unsettling, certainly life changing, therefore potentially dangerous, a thing to be approached and dealt with as if holding a radio active element with tongs. Yes, hazardous indeed... "I'm going to do it," he said... I didn't need to be told what "it" was, I knew. And to tell the strict truth, he had laid down a trail of clues, hints and innuendos for months just like Hansel and Gretel with their bread crumbs. But that was just conjecture, a possibility, table talk to be treated as serious or not depending on how many pieces of pie had been ingested whilst the subject was under discussion. One slice meant not likely, two suggested a distinct possibility, and any more than two he was packing his trunk bidding the world to catch up or eat his dust... and there is nothing more serious than that. Quo vadis? Could it be just as simple as the simple fact that humans like to see what is on the other side of that hill over yonder? "Why did the chicken cross the road?", my father used to ask the unwary. "Why, to get to the other side", and then he'd laugh as you would laugh at a rube from the city who didn't know up from down. Maybe we're programmed by the Ultimate Authority to leave hearth and home... in pursuit of the "something better" we're sure is our individual and collective destiny. I used to wonder about this when I was growing up. Why did Abraham Lincoln's family, for instance, move so much... to Virginia...to Kentucky... to Indiana... to Illinois? Were they reckless, feckless, incapable of staying put and turning the good into the better? Or were they far sighted visionaries who had to go because remaining would have been so much easier and thus beneath them, for they were a proud, assertive people and knew they were worthy of any benefit they might dream of and seize? They called that destiny, and it was manifest to each of them... and so they went on their travels to achieve it... as they so often did. To move was to live and so they must go until their very last journey to their eternal destination. Just a year ago. It's been just about a year now since this journey seemed likely for him. His wife, my step-mother Miss Ellie, slipped into the hereafter as easily as taking a breath. We were advised to expect the worst, at any time. As for him he looked like he was waiting for the Grim Reaper to open the door of the Black Mariah and escort him to forever. He suddenly seemed ancient, frail, ready, resigned, even eager for what was coming. Waiting seemed pointless, aggravating, irritating, and a threat to the perfect tableau of death we were all constructing, more to show ourselves that we had given him a good send-off, the send-off he had waited a lifetime to get and which must showcase him with all due respect, love, and the certainty that he had received his due, every jot and tittle. "I'm ready for whenever the Good Lord takes me". The vital concerns of daily life were no longer part of his reality. He had put his foot on the next road, the final road... but in the event he did not commence the journey. Everything, everyone was ready for the new, sleek, easy as snap, crackle, and pop, 3-step, "Howdie, ma'am", quick speed, strip the corpse and burn it American way of death, prayers extra. We were awaiting this... we were prepared for this... we knew how to do this. But then the unexpected occurred, the thing that upset the apple cart. He lived. And this startled us, astounded us, and forced us to change the game plan, just as he was having to do. ("I can still catch the 4.45 to Chicago if I run.") What is it that causes a man whose deteriorating condition has prompted the urgent and adamant communications of a posse of medical personnel to stop the process of withdrawal and expiration and live again? The sapient physicians will cite a given tablet or therapy. Family members and friends will speak confidently of the infinite power of love, whilst the still living being at the center of the conundrum says God's will, which despite a legion of disbelieving scientists remains credible, vibrant, and reassuring. And so the first of many a new day dawned on an enigma, with awe, relief, joy, and a renewed commitment to life, the most important condition of our human reality, for without it nothing is possible. With it, everything is. "O Death where is thy sting?" Now what? The process of dying is the average Joe's only opportunity to enjoy the prerogatives and privileges of a prince. At the court of Louis XIV, for instance, when the king was ill, and especially when the king lay dying (1715) the smell of his gangrene overpowered the combined perfumes of the gentlemen of France. Learned physicians from the Sorbonne in their long, sweeping silk gowns would troop ensemble to la chambre du roi to sniff his evacuations and render their opinion about his longevity; an opinion on which the future of many gentlemen rested, for to be too early in leaving the old regime... or too late in embracing the new... had the most serious consequences. "Charme' " was the highest rating for what they passed in chamber pot under their fastidious noses and minute review. "Charme'" meant life. In our death averse civilization, where we hope that mentioning the matter as little as possible will forestall its certain existence and execution, each of us becomes as much the center of affairs as the Sun King himself. As death approaches, we are admitted, weighed, dieted, measured, wheel chaired, analyzed, observed, discussed, considered, reconsidered, lamented, wept over, wept for, babied, prayed for, praised, kissed (including by total strangers), fluffed, boxed, organized, advised, critiqued, photographed, questioned, listened to, eulogized, spruced up, sent flowers, sent candy, send cakes and cookies... and this is only part of our way of death. All this is done for you on the expectation that you will do your share, namely be as upbeat and cheerful as possible; that you will go through all the necessary and inevitable steps promptly, without inconveniencing anyone by failing to adhere to their (always brisk) schedule for your demise, and that at the end of the day you die... allowing the final obsequies to occur and every cliche in the calendar thought, given, photographed, videotaped, and complimented by one and all at how well it had gone. Next! But he did not die despite the panoply of preparations, expectations, and the learned opinions of every professional engaged in the matter. The lead physician in the case called me one afternoon and told me with the polished certainties of the medical ilk that death was scheduled for T minus 5 hours and counting. And that was that. Only it wasn't. To the surprise of all, including the principal actor himself, the consternation of many, and the downright irritation of some (those whose prayers and presentations had been the most ostentatious), the man known to history as Donald Marshall Lant lived... thereby being continued in the dicey, unpredictable, messy and often baffling business of living, rather than the adamant certainties of death. For instance, when he returned alive to the dining room of the assisted living facility where he had last been discussed and hugged as a certain goner, there was a notable frisson, as if he had farted in the elevator; it was, it seemed, mal vu to return alive after such a perfect farewell. "Forgotten but not gone", as one wag quipped. What a comedown for the man who expected to wake up in the bosom of the Lord, amongst the saints who are marching in, most assuredly one of their high-stepping number. But instead he lived... and that was the greatest gift of all, the rest certain to occur in due course but put aside for now. There could still be, would be dreams... and these dreams could still come true in the many a new day that were now his. Thus he was informing me, not asking my permission or inviting my opinion but acting like the patriarch he had been for so long. He was leaving the California where he had lived so long and with such comfort and contentment and moving to Oklahoma. He had a list of "reasons" at the ready, my brother and his simpatica wife of long standing were near at hand, the cost of living was dramatically lower, and, perhaps though unstated, the poignant memories of Miss Ellie were too potent and bittersweet in the suite where they had loved and lost each other. But there was, I think, one more reason, that to stay ensconced in the verdant grandeur of California was like waiting for the inevitability of death, a condition that sapped the joy from everything and left him dispirited and low. Motion meant life... and he still had life to spend and in abundance. Thus whilst I advanced reasons for caution and deliberation, his mind and imagination raced ahead, Rodgers and Hammerstein giving him in "Oklahoma" (1943) not just one of the most lyric of their incomparable repertoire but the best reason of all: I sang off key "Many a new face will please my eye", and he instantly responded off key, "Many a new love will find me." Then I knew for a certainty many a new day would dawn for him and that these would be the best of all. Envoi. Go now to any search engine, and play "Many A New Day" and let this plucky song work its happy magic for you. |
