More thoughs on Mortality, Immortality and whatnot.
It's an odd thing, I think, to want to die. I don't mean the heart break of a break up "I wish I was dead" sort of thing. I mean that bottom of the well and beyond, that empty soul sucking feeling where there is absolutely no other alternative than to give into the dying of the light.
I've thought about dying. I have, simply because I believe that is part and parcel of what it means to be human. I'd like to think that everyone thinks about dying, some time or other.
I don't mean people thinking about killing themselves. I hold suicide to be the most cowardly and yet, the most brave thing a person can do. It is the ultimate in running away and the ultimate of running toward, I believe. I'm pretty darn sure I wouldn't do it. I don't think I have that sort of strength or that amount of fear. I've known people who have done it, successfully, I might add. I've also known people who have done it unsuccessfully. One had this report on returning from beyond the pale. He was dead for 3 minutes and said "It was boring. There was nothing at all." Not exactly a glowing recommendation. Then again, this person tends to feel most of life is like that, so in that case, why wouldn't death be just like life. That would be, if you tend toward religiousity, an ironic hell if ever there was one. I suspect the majority of people have thought about suicide on a very down day. I likewise suspect that the majority of people decided that there were more important things to do.
No, I mean exactly this. To lay in bed, or sit on the sofa, or drive a car or eat a sandwich and to think about, to imagine, what it is to be dying. Not this long slow process which we are all going through. I mean that deterioration of tissue, that lacking of consciousness, that quick, painless exit from here to wherever there is, if there is a there. What it feels like in those last few moments when you know you are slipping away and letting go of this vestige of mortality.
Nice phrase that. The vestige of mortality. Not the 'last' vestige. Vestige itself is indicative of the 'last' of something. Merriam-Webby defines vestige as "a trace, mark, or visible sign left by something (such as an ancient city or a condition or practice) vanished or lost." So, if it's a vestige, it's pretty much already gone. Already the 'last'. So yeah. Vestige of mortality. It's an elegant thing.
I've sat, for minutes and perhaps hours at a time, thinking and pondering this. I've gotten to the point where I can feel my limbs loosen and my will slip a bit and my mind to almost, but not quite, go someplace other than this earthly plane. I've danced on the outskirts of that country where we are all illegal aliens, thumbing my nose at those on the other side.
Sounds brave and daring, doesn't it? No? It doesn't sound like that at all. It sounds like a romanticized version of what I really go though. Here's a true story. Well... as true as I remember it.
I used to walk at night in my teen years. We lived on the very edge of a neighborhood that eventually grew into another neighborhood and I would find myself walking for miles and miles, for hours, just... thinking. One night, I had an odd thought. See, I wasn't particularly happy with me. I was a teenager from a home that had... issues. I think I've already talked about them, so why belittle what you already know. So, my home life.. my away from home life, too, was pretty darn uncomfortable and while I didn't want to end it all, I sure has heck didn't want to be me.
I had this odd thought: I'd forget who I was and rebuild myself from the inside. Now, it may not have been all that zen. I may have just wanted to forget myself, without all the nobility.
There's this book "The Boy Who Could Make Himself Disappear" by Kin Platt. Highly recommended to anyone who has ever felt like leaving it all behind, digging a hole in oneself and crawling in, pulling oneself behind. Yeah... it's deep, truly. And I read it, and GOT it, when I was ... 10? Maybe. Before I came to Oklahoma (I was 11 when that happened), for sure, because I bought it at a Weekly Reader book sale at school, back in Indiana.
Same book sale I bought my brother James a Sword in the Stone sticker book, because he was very ill and was bedridden for quite a while.
All this is true to this point. All of it. Let's see how much more honest I can be with myself, shall we?
Okay... I had this crazy idea to self-induce amnesia. And yes.. that is what I called it. Self-induced amnesia. It wasn't true amnesia, it was more like partial amnesia. I only wanted to forget my identity, remove the part of me that was me, and leave just a kernel of myself. I wanted to disappear.
I was probably all of 14. I know this pretty much because it was the year that Sequoyah Junior High (remember those?) held a Sadie Hawkins day dance. First and, I believe last. Out of the entire 9th grade (I'm guessing.) I was the only boy that was not asked to go. Yeah, there may have been more, but I never met them. Therefore, ipso de facto, I was the only one.
I walked around this big batch of neighborhoods working to remove my identity. My Mantra was simple: "Who am I?" Nobody. "Where do I come from?" Nowhere. "What is my name?" I have no name. Over and over, every step of every mile until something loosened and broke and for a long minute or a long couple of minutes, I did not know who I was, where I was, what my name was or any of the issues that 'I' had.
I remember the feeling because it was glorious. I had that built in that I wouldn't completely forget everything. I didn't know where I was, but I could find my way back home. Lost, and yet, not. And for that one brief patch of time I belonged to only me, and that was freedom. For the brief eternity, I liked who I was, totally and completely because I was all I had and that was enough.
Eventually, I wandered home. It was probably 11 at night when I got there, and there was school the next day. I remembered who I was, all that I had gone through and all I had put up with and still I liked me. Just a little. Just enough. Enough to keep on going and being and thinking odd thoughts and speaking odd things.
And yes, I made it. This is as true as I remember. Which means it may be not true at all, but a false memory. I'd like to believe that it's as true as true can be, and so... I do.
I'm still living that lesson, by the way. At times, I still forget who I am. There are parts of me I do not like. There are parts of me I stand in wonder of. It's my hope that everybody has that. Everybody has a Jekyll. Everybody Has a Hyde. Or so I'd like to believe. I could be wrong.
Speaking of forgetting and mortality. Have you ever considered that one day you might forget how to wipe your butt? Forget how to tie your shoes? Button your shirt or blouse? And that, because you were embarrassed or ashamed or whatever sort of pride mechanism you have, you didn't ask for help and instead taught yourself how to do these things all over again.
I mean.. the shoes, okay. That's simple. Youtube. And I've gotten pretty good at it again. Not perfect, but close. Shirts? Pretty self explanatory. Mostly. I still have trouble with that one button at the top. I keep trying to push the button through sideways. It can be done, but it's damned frustrating.
That whole (no pun, really) wiping of the butt thing is just down right frustrating. Yes, I remember the general mechanics and I remember I had it down to almost and art form. I did break down once and asked Shannon for advice, and bless her heart... though she looked at me very oddly and I'm sure she thought I was just screwing with her head, she said "Boys go back to front, girls go front to back". Okay... I got that. Basic Biology. And I'm still not proficient at it and it takes me twice to three times as long as it did just 3 years ago.
That's a thing I've told almost nobody. It's something that makes me nervous. My uncle John, a genius in that absent minded way, died from complications of Parkinson that was helped by Alzheimer. Double whammy. Why do something half-assed. So it makes me nervous, this losing of my mind thing.
So... I think about dying. I've had my father, two brothers, mother, ex-wife, friends...etc... all die.
I sometimes catch myself thinking about Linda, the ex. I suspect she took the easy train. Pills. Morphine. And just stopped breathing because her body forgot how to. At least, I hope it was that easy for her. I don't want to think about her in more pain than she was already in. Her body had betrayed her, after decades of usage of drugs that were actually prescribed to her by medical personnel (doctors) who rarely checked to see what the interactions might be. Linda would say "That's what the pharmacist is for." I think Linda was an idiot at times, and depended far too much upon the kindness of strangers. But she died.
And I think about what she was feeling as she died. It's hard to explain, really. How you let your mind slip away, one thought at a time. How the limbs get incredibly heavy and then, so light they don't exist. How your bodily functions seem to implode upon themselves until all that's left is the quiet Lub a Dub of the last moments of your beating heart. Until that final word passes your lips, propelled by the last bit of breath you will ever experience. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa h" I don't even know if there is a final 'h'. I think it's just "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ".
I wonder of my dad, who died of brain cancer. What did he think about, as he felt himself going? As he lost the use of his limbs, his voice, his music... his magnificent brain? Was he angry at the end? What he happy to be getting away from my stepmother, Eydra? Er.. I'm sorry.. Edra. No love lost there. Or did he think to himself, which is just as likely as anything "Now, by God, I'll know!" My father was a spiritual man who believe strong that God must exist because why not? The Universe is too orderly, he said.
My brother, who died in a pancreatic coma from cancer, and yet, who shed a tear as I held him one last time mere minutes before aaaaaaaaaaa . Him, I miss horribly and my eyes get all leaky just thinking about it. James was a religious nut and we argued, sometimes to blows. And I miss the heck out of him.
My favorite was my mom. My last visit with her, she was only partly there. Part of her... the essential her... had already caught that ferry to where ever. I would talk to her and she would smile and nod and then she would drift back somewhere far, far away, her eyes focused on nothing here. Maybe she was looking at Gary Cooper, whom she said was her greatest love. Maybe she was looking at Dick Van Dyke, whom I suspect really was. One month later, on October 31st, she decided that she had enough and left. Why was my mom's death my favorite? Because it was time.
Second runner up was Grandpa Joe. Joe Goda. Went into the hospital because he "wasn't feeling himself", they ran some tests and were going to keep him there. He called my mom, who had moved back to Indiana to take care of her parents, and said "Betty Jo, come get me out of here." And she did. Two nights later, he got up from watching television, said Good night to his wife, Eva Peal, and my mom saying, "I'm pretty tired. I think I'll go rest." And he did. Official cause of death, I kid you not, was "Heart wore out." That was a man who lived, and why I use his name with honor.
And so, sometimes I think about it. Abut death. Sometimes I think it might be a nice thing, to walk away from this job and not have to punch that life clock in the morning. How quiet. How peaceful. As I was told "There's nothing there." Sounds pretty good to me at times. Nothing.
But only for a while. Only on my terms. Only when I want it and with the certitude I can always make the round trip without losing my luggage. Don't fly Delta unless you tag your luggage well. Just saying.
Because, see... there's that hill over there. Or that stretch of road fading into the horizon. Or that boundless ocean. Or that towering mountain. Or... or... or.... any number of new and interesting thing that haven't been searched or discovered or wondered or... or... or....
And that is why immortality. Because I'm not tired of the or... or... or.... I don't think I ever will be. And if I do all of it? Aaaallll of it, what then? Why, I have to start over, you see. Because I can't remember.
I've thought about dying. I have, simply because I believe that is part and parcel of what it means to be human. I'd like to think that everyone thinks about dying, some time or other.
I don't mean people thinking about killing themselves. I hold suicide to be the most cowardly and yet, the most brave thing a person can do. It is the ultimate in running away and the ultimate of running toward, I believe. I'm pretty darn sure I wouldn't do it. I don't think I have that sort of strength or that amount of fear. I've known people who have done it, successfully, I might add. I've also known people who have done it unsuccessfully. One had this report on returning from beyond the pale. He was dead for 3 minutes and said "It was boring. There was nothing at all." Not exactly a glowing recommendation. Then again, this person tends to feel most of life is like that, so in that case, why wouldn't death be just like life. That would be, if you tend toward religiousity, an ironic hell if ever there was one. I suspect the majority of people have thought about suicide on a very down day. I likewise suspect that the majority of people decided that there were more important things to do.
No, I mean exactly this. To lay in bed, or sit on the sofa, or drive a car or eat a sandwich and to think about, to imagine, what it is to be dying. Not this long slow process which we are all going through. I mean that deterioration of tissue, that lacking of consciousness, that quick, painless exit from here to wherever there is, if there is a there. What it feels like in those last few moments when you know you are slipping away and letting go of this vestige of mortality.
Nice phrase that. The vestige of mortality. Not the 'last' vestige. Vestige itself is indicative of the 'last' of something. Merriam-Webby defines vestige as "a trace, mark, or visible sign left by something (such as an ancient city or a condition or practice) vanished or lost." So, if it's a vestige, it's pretty much already gone. Already the 'last'. So yeah. Vestige of mortality. It's an elegant thing.
I've sat, for minutes and perhaps hours at a time, thinking and pondering this. I've gotten to the point where I can feel my limbs loosen and my will slip a bit and my mind to almost, but not quite, go someplace other than this earthly plane. I've danced on the outskirts of that country where we are all illegal aliens, thumbing my nose at those on the other side.
Sounds brave and daring, doesn't it? No? It doesn't sound like that at all. It sounds like a romanticized version of what I really go though. Here's a true story. Well... as true as I remember it.
I used to walk at night in my teen years. We lived on the very edge of a neighborhood that eventually grew into another neighborhood and I would find myself walking for miles and miles, for hours, just... thinking. One night, I had an odd thought. See, I wasn't particularly happy with me. I was a teenager from a home that had... issues. I think I've already talked about them, so why belittle what you already know. So, my home life.. my away from home life, too, was pretty darn uncomfortable and while I didn't want to end it all, I sure has heck didn't want to be me.
I had this odd thought: I'd forget who I was and rebuild myself from the inside. Now, it may not have been all that zen. I may have just wanted to forget myself, without all the nobility.
There's this book "The Boy Who Could Make Himself Disappear" by Kin Platt. Highly recommended to anyone who has ever felt like leaving it all behind, digging a hole in oneself and crawling in, pulling oneself behind. Yeah... it's deep, truly. And I read it, and GOT it, when I was ... 10? Maybe. Before I came to Oklahoma (I was 11 when that happened), for sure, because I bought it at a Weekly Reader book sale at school, back in Indiana.
Same book sale I bought my brother James a Sword in the Stone sticker book, because he was very ill and was bedridden for quite a while.
All this is true to this point. All of it. Let's see how much more honest I can be with myself, shall we?
Okay... I had this crazy idea to self-induce amnesia. And yes.. that is what I called it. Self-induced amnesia. It wasn't true amnesia, it was more like partial amnesia. I only wanted to forget my identity, remove the part of me that was me, and leave just a kernel of myself. I wanted to disappear.
I was probably all of 14. I know this pretty much because it was the year that Sequoyah Junior High (remember those?) held a Sadie Hawkins day dance. First and, I believe last. Out of the entire 9th grade (I'm guessing.) I was the only boy that was not asked to go. Yeah, there may have been more, but I never met them. Therefore, ipso de facto, I was the only one.
I walked around this big batch of neighborhoods working to remove my identity. My Mantra was simple: "Who am I?" Nobody. "Where do I come from?" Nowhere. "What is my name?" I have no name. Over and over, every step of every mile until something loosened and broke and for a long minute or a long couple of minutes, I did not know who I was, where I was, what my name was or any of the issues that 'I' had.
I remember the feeling because it was glorious. I had that built in that I wouldn't completely forget everything. I didn't know where I was, but I could find my way back home. Lost, and yet, not. And for that one brief patch of time I belonged to only me, and that was freedom. For the brief eternity, I liked who I was, totally and completely because I was all I had and that was enough.
Eventually, I wandered home. It was probably 11 at night when I got there, and there was school the next day. I remembered who I was, all that I had gone through and all I had put up with and still I liked me. Just a little. Just enough. Enough to keep on going and being and thinking odd thoughts and speaking odd things.
And yes, I made it. This is as true as I remember. Which means it may be not true at all, but a false memory. I'd like to believe that it's as true as true can be, and so... I do.
I'm still living that lesson, by the way. At times, I still forget who I am. There are parts of me I do not like. There are parts of me I stand in wonder of. It's my hope that everybody has that. Everybody has a Jekyll. Everybody Has a Hyde. Or so I'd like to believe. I could be wrong.
Speaking of forgetting and mortality. Have you ever considered that one day you might forget how to wipe your butt? Forget how to tie your shoes? Button your shirt or blouse? And that, because you were embarrassed or ashamed or whatever sort of pride mechanism you have, you didn't ask for help and instead taught yourself how to do these things all over again.
I mean.. the shoes, okay. That's simple. Youtube. And I've gotten pretty good at it again. Not perfect, but close. Shirts? Pretty self explanatory. Mostly. I still have trouble with that one button at the top. I keep trying to push the button through sideways. It can be done, but it's damned frustrating.
That whole (no pun, really) wiping of the butt thing is just down right frustrating. Yes, I remember the general mechanics and I remember I had it down to almost and art form. I did break down once and asked Shannon for advice, and bless her heart... though she looked at me very oddly and I'm sure she thought I was just screwing with her head, she said "Boys go back to front, girls go front to back". Okay... I got that. Basic Biology. And I'm still not proficient at it and it takes me twice to three times as long as it did just 3 years ago.
That's a thing I've told almost nobody. It's something that makes me nervous. My uncle John, a genius in that absent minded way, died from complications of Parkinson that was helped by Alzheimer. Double whammy. Why do something half-assed. So it makes me nervous, this losing of my mind thing.
So... I think about dying. I've had my father, two brothers, mother, ex-wife, friends...etc... all die.
I sometimes catch myself thinking about Linda, the ex. I suspect she took the easy train. Pills. Morphine. And just stopped breathing because her body forgot how to. At least, I hope it was that easy for her. I don't want to think about her in more pain than she was already in. Her body had betrayed her, after decades of usage of drugs that were actually prescribed to her by medical personnel (doctors) who rarely checked to see what the interactions might be. Linda would say "That's what the pharmacist is for." I think Linda was an idiot at times, and depended far too much upon the kindness of strangers. But she died.
And I think about what she was feeling as she died. It's hard to explain, really. How you let your mind slip away, one thought at a time. How the limbs get incredibly heavy and then, so light they don't exist. How your bodily functions seem to implode upon themselves until all that's left is the quiet Lub a Dub of the last moments of your beating heart. Until that final word passes your lips, propelled by the last bit of breath you will ever experience. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa h" I don't even know if there is a final 'h'. I think it's just "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ".
I wonder of my dad, who died of brain cancer. What did he think about, as he felt himself going? As he lost the use of his limbs, his voice, his music... his magnificent brain? Was he angry at the end? What he happy to be getting away from my stepmother, Eydra? Er.. I'm sorry.. Edra. No love lost there. Or did he think to himself, which is just as likely as anything "Now, by God, I'll know!" My father was a spiritual man who believe strong that God must exist because why not? The Universe is too orderly, he said.
My brother, who died in a pancreatic coma from cancer, and yet, who shed a tear as I held him one last time mere minutes before aaaaaaaaaaa . Him, I miss horribly and my eyes get all leaky just thinking about it. James was a religious nut and we argued, sometimes to blows. And I miss the heck out of him.
My favorite was my mom. My last visit with her, she was only partly there. Part of her... the essential her... had already caught that ferry to where ever. I would talk to her and she would smile and nod and then she would drift back somewhere far, far away, her eyes focused on nothing here. Maybe she was looking at Gary Cooper, whom she said was her greatest love. Maybe she was looking at Dick Van Dyke, whom I suspect really was. One month later, on October 31st, she decided that she had enough and left. Why was my mom's death my favorite? Because it was time.
Second runner up was Grandpa Joe. Joe Goda. Went into the hospital because he "wasn't feeling himself", they ran some tests and were going to keep him there. He called my mom, who had moved back to Indiana to take care of her parents, and said "Betty Jo, come get me out of here." And she did. Two nights later, he got up from watching television, said Good night to his wife, Eva Peal, and my mom saying, "I'm pretty tired. I think I'll go rest." And he did. Official cause of death, I kid you not, was "Heart wore out." That was a man who lived, and why I use his name with honor.
And so, sometimes I think about it. Abut death. Sometimes I think it might be a nice thing, to walk away from this job and not have to punch that life clock in the morning. How quiet. How peaceful. As I was told "There's nothing there." Sounds pretty good to me at times. Nothing.
But only for a while. Only on my terms. Only when I want it and with the certitude I can always make the round trip without losing my luggage. Don't fly Delta unless you tag your luggage well. Just saying.
Because, see... there's that hill over there. Or that stretch of road fading into the horizon. Or that boundless ocean. Or that towering mountain. Or... or... or.... any number of new and interesting thing that haven't been searched or discovered or wondered or... or... or....
And that is why immortality. Because I'm not tired of the or... or... or.... I don't think I ever will be. And if I do all of it? Aaaallll of it, what then? Why, I have to start over, you see. Because I can't remember.