O'Topsys On The Dead

Virus

Part 16 of 30

Looking back over my life -- the whole range of experiences, everything from baptism to premarital fooling around -- I’ve lived a good life. I suppose if I were to come down with something, say the Virus, I’d be completely bummed out and given to thinking about my life even more, the good, bad, and worse. Including this blog. I suppose the Smithsonian would want it. But my main focus has to be on not getting sick.

And, yes, I am very sympathetic to everyone who suffers, whether it's all the various infections, viruses, congenital diseases, etc., itself a huge range of things, everything from dog breath to Italian breath to game toe, really the sky’s the limit, something falling from the sky and killing a guy in a freak accident. It might be a plane, it might be the engine falling off a wing, a tire, a bird sucked in the turbines and shot out the back. It falls and wraps itself around your neck and you choke to death. For me that’d be terrible for my family, since we used to go out hunting for birds (pheasants, and partridges at Christmas), and what kind of karma would that be with a bird falling out of the sky and killing me?

They’d likely do an o'topsy on the situation, which they always do when it’s critical to know the cause of death. If you’re an old guy at a nursing home and die quietly in your sleep at the age of 192, naturally they forego the o'topsy, or if they do one there’s no charge, usually a newbie doing his first o'topsy as part of the practical training at o'topsy school. The way I understand it, though, and my understandings of things tend to be accurate, they keep it lighthearted so no one gets sick. “If you need to turn away,” the old doctor says to the young, “don’t be embarrassed. And remember, that plastic bag dispenser on the side of the bed isn’t just for looks.”

By the time you’re in o'topsy training, of course, you’ve mastered all the preliminary courses, passing with at least a 70% score. Everything from draining to manicures. Again, if you’re old, 192 or up, you won't need an o'topsy, so there’s some benefits to living to a ripe old age. It is obviously a benefit lost on the patient, but it’s of real comfort to the family that their loved one’s passing was without controversy.

You may recall that I mentioned in the past some of the tours I’ve taken, and one of them actually was to a school for morticians. I wasn’t queasy, nothing to that degree, and made it fine. It was for a class. It was interesting, but more interesting for the creepy/funny reactions of the others in the class. There was one guy who was so eager to see it and get the full scoop on everything they did. They took us to a closet, maybe bigger than a closet but not much, where a body was kept, and that guy was so excited about seeing a dead guy that it amused the whole class!

Follow The Light

Virus

Part 1 of 30

Everyone knows nature doesn’t mess around. When particular combinations of things come together, there’s consequences. In many cases, the combinations are great for us or OK or adequate, fair to middlin', and sometimes pisspoor. Beans, sauce, and chili powder make chili, the prime example of a combination that’s great. Put in a little hamburger and it’s to die for. Then there’s a whole range of OK or adequate combinations: Stripes and solids in clothing, air and lungs in breathing, pencils and pens in schools, and steves and dores in loading or unloading ships.

Our lives depend on good combinations of things coming together in a good way. At Grandma’s place we used to go out and manually pump our water and bring it in the house for everyone to drink. Back then we either didn’t have viruses or were just too dumb to realize we did, but everyone drank with a common ladle out of the same bucket. It’s still interesting to me that no one ever got sick or died. But who knows? If the wrong person had come in and taken a drink, then died, they might’ve sued us big-time. (That was the same house I later lived in with Grandma, but since then it’s rotted away and was hauled to the dump and now I live in the Big City. But one day I was back in the old ‘hood and the pump’s still there, now as a decorative item.)

The combination of things we’re interested in these days involve the virus and making sure we don’t come into contact with it. Certainly no one’s drinking from the same ladle. We’re a lot more careful now, and no one more so than me. Now, I'm a huge germaphobe -- virus or no virus -- but I wasn't as a kid. But a guy gets a little bit of knowledge and it makes a huge difference. Anytime I’m with anyone I’m very watchful of them. If they touch something, that registers. Not so much because of the virus, but that’s just how it is. But now with the virus, of course I'm more mindful. I hate going to the grocery store or really anywhere. I don’t mind taking a walk, but if I meet anyone, or see them coming a mile away, I’m busy making preparations for how I’m going to get the hell out of there.

One of these days, though, whether the virus is still around or not, there’s going to be something, hopefully just internal normal stuff and not a combination of good and bad that could’ve been avoided that’s going to take me, your faithful scribe, out of this good old earth. But don’t worry, I’ve got enough life insurance for a fit burial, a small combo, trumpet and kazoo, the best cardboard urn money can buy, and incongruously a few phone numbers for the most economical crematories, with their great mottos: “We Put The Ashes in ‘Ashes to Ashes’” and my favorite, “This Ain't Hell, Just A Cremation.”

Later, the soul is busy flitting its way to its reward, upward and onward! Ride like the wind! All a guy has do is “Follow the Light, They'll Get Me There.”

Baby Spat "Stir Will Be Nothing!"

Soon Angelina will be with the angels. How about that? I've been very emotional lately, and probably the last thing I need is a tearjerker story about a lady dying. But life is life, and regardless of my sensitivity, there will always be suffering. Really, my sensitivity numbers are through the roof. I hear a sad story and I about bust out in tears, especially if it has something to do with a lady like Angelina. Let that name roll around on your tongue a while; you'll be in love.

Here's what I know. She was given 30 days to live. I can only imagine! You get severe bodily malfunctions. This is bad, this is barely functioning, this is on the fritz. You're looking at your big toe, holding out hope and sort of daring it to go bad, then reversing yourself completely, saying, "Don't you dare go bad!" I know, you can live without a big toe, even if it takes some mincing around so you're not falling over. I also have a big toe problem, a little numbness in it; it seems like I hit it on something or dropped something on it, but my memory's bad too.

Add to the mix Angelina is married to George. Very crotchety guy. He's apparently been a significant burden to her. He's old, and like most guys, a horn-dog. But even when your wife's very basic life systems are shutting down? George, to put it mildly, can be a bastard. But to a certain extent I can relate. You're a guy, you have needs. And while it's easy to lie, say you're going to the bathroom to clean the sink (or whatever), then actually do whatever, and suddenly you're OK, there's limited satisfaction there. Especially with Angelina that close.

So they got into it. Most of us know she not that into George. I can't imagine why anyone would be into a crotchety guy like him. Forgive me, I know I'm preachin' to the choir, assuming you know George. Essentially it's this: George can be tough. He's not always the most sensitive guy, and there's a certain level of selfishness that characterizes him.

OK, in that highly-charged situation, things escalate. Finally she threatens to kill him. He goes suddenly quiet and throws up hands, answering indignantly, "Yeah, well they'll put you away just like that! I could call the cops right now and they'd put your ass in stir!" Stir!

How'd she take that? She laughed like a maniac. (I know her family, she’s never been 100% stable either.) She laughed, then spat out, “Stir will be nothing! Because I only have a month to live! I’ll send you off ahead of me, and I’ll see you when I get there!” If that idea resonates with you, you might be thinking of streets of gold and mansions or smoldering embers and smoking caverns. It might be like that, but it could also be like it is here, a mixture of the two, life being what you make it. Too bad her doctor couldn't solve her problems...

A month to live, then dead. If any one of us had to deal with that -- and we had a husband on the make, like George -- it'd be tough to handle. For me, I wouldn't want to harm anyone. Strictly live and let live. I want everyone to have a chance to live without interference, although I would defend myself from an aggressor as best I could. Going by the daily news, though, there's a lot of nutzoids who go totally ballistic. I'd like to sit some of these nutzoids down and make them look straight into my eyes and tell them, "Listen, buddy, you get a grip on your damned self or you're going to do something stupid, OK?" Tell them about Stir. Stir means prison. Stir means bad. But what if you had 30 days to live?

That's what Angelina meant by her spitting-mad retort, “Stir will be nothing!” If the doctors couldn’t get her intestines and heart and kidney situation untangled, the guys at the police station won’t be able to fix her so she’d have to suffer the slings and arrows of the system. She could sit there and taunt them, too. Even if they got sick of it and moved her to “The Hole,” time has already passed, what’s 20 days in “The Hole”? Bad I'm sure, but take Angelina's health into account; she might pass out and die early.

The way George handled it, just to tidy up, was to choose retreat in the face of homicidal Angelina with nothing to lose. Wisely, he wheedled and worked hard -- but tenderly -- to get back on her good side. “Oh, let me love you, baby, like we used to do. Let me handle the cooking, the cleaning, getting your soiled porta-panties out to the garbage. You relax and take it easy.” She calmed down as he brushed her hair. He watched her covered breasts heave from the previous excitement, then relax as she dozed off.

Then he threw some Aqua Velva into a duffle bag, some clothes, etc., and got the hell out of there. He came by, explained the situation to me, borrowed my pup tent, and he’ll check in with me in 30-45 days, just to make sure the coast is definitely clear.

What I might do, if she actually passes on, is post it here — maybe explicitly, maybe something between the lines — so George can come back safely, go through the grieving process, etc., then get on with his life as best as he can.

IF THE THREAT HAD BECOME REALITY

Dad Wanted to Die Alone

Note: I'm sorry this post is long, but I can't cut short the story of a guy's death. My recommendation is that you read it over a period of three days. That way you can pace yourself, not tire your eyes and mind, and be better able to consider the issues of life, family, mortality, and passing. There's two great truths about Death: It plays no favorites and it plays for keeps. Reflecting on Death, as I often do, I am set a'trembling, and yet I wouldn't have it any other way.

The stories of how people die -- how we die -- are among the weirdest. We aren't sure if it's supposed to be a social process or simply a solitary act. Dogs crawl off to die alone, but we, perhaps because we have more feeling for appearances, make a production of it. Still, the dog isn't too far off the beam; there are times when dying alone is preferable.

Moss Stipple wanted it both ways, at least he alternated between them, in a strait betwixt two. We shall call him by the term of affection that his family knew him by, Dad. (He wasn't my father, by the way.)

Dad was in the hospital. All hope was gone, according to those in the medical field. He was dying and, if the process went on as everyone expected, he would be dead soon, very soon. As the time seemed to loom very near, those on the scene carried on their conversations in hushed tones. Nurses and doctors conferred as much in sign language and with well understood nods as anything else.

Dad rouses and demands, "What's going on?", then drops back to silence. "Nothing, Dad, just get some rest." The nurses stand still a moment, then return to their business, in motions designating lieutenants among the family. As if to say, "You're on cotton swab, you're on soothing music, you're on bedpan, ring if you need anything." The doctors, recently on the scene in conference, don't do any of this; they simply vanish down the nearest doctor hole.

After a bit, Dad rouses again, and holds up his finger, and whispers, "I want to die alone." To me this is more heroic than to face the namby pamby look of one son on cotton swab, another on music, etc. With resolve, he sends everyone away. Good for him! Because all the chatter, their hushed tones, and the various distractions take away Dad's dignity as a man.

Alone then, he's contemplating, trying to keep fear away, trying to stave off the sense of abandonment, which rises quickly. He sends for his family, who return, some still, some preoccupied with whatever. One son has the undesirable task of arranging a birthday party for his twins. They're talking together: "Has the doctor been in?" "I haven't seen him." "No, he was in for just a moment. Don't know what he said." "Dad, what'd the doctor say?" Dad says with difficulty, "What?" They busy themselves with the swab, the music, and ready nitrile gloves in case the bedpan should come into play.

The nurses return to the scene, needing to shift Dad. There's always some danger of bedsores if he's left in one spot for more than an hour. "On 2, 1-2." They shift him; now he's on his side, his bottom out for a moment, with all demurely turning away.

The son's phone rings. "No, I don't need two cakes, just two places at the head table for the twins. That's right, one cake, two places." With this commotion, everything from the swabs to the birthday arrangements, Dad comes-to strongly enough to send them all out. He again wants to die alone, in peace. They think, 'Who are we to argue against this good man?' and leave.

Back at his dying, Dad busies himself with his final thoughts, the thoughts of Everyman: "I had a pretty good life. I loved my wife. I'll see her again very soon. I and my family, the whole Stipple clan, many generations of us, have our names written in the Book of Life. Life is good." He pauses for a moment, about to cry, and thinks, 'My dad wasn't like this. I was at his bedside.' Wanting to be the dad his dad was, then, Dad sends for his family.

The whole crew's back. They've been involved in some debate going on between themselves and three competing doctors. One doc wants more tests, but, the family says, "Dad's side is like a pin cushion." "No, we've been using the port." One wants to try a complete Ensure regimen. One wants a morphine drip timed for every hour. Some agree, some disagree.

The nurses are back from their break, smelling of smoke. It's time for the family to man the patient, so things get hectic again. Dad can see this busyness in all quarters, all except for a long haired grandson in the corner preoccupied with a video game, otherwise sullen.

An hour or so later, the sons and daughter are tapping their toes, impatient. "Why don't they tell us anything?" "Maybe they don't know anything." "Then tell us that!" An uncle -- Dad's healthy brother -- comes in, offering to spring for a cafeteria run, ice cream for the kids, saying, "We don't know how long we might be waiting." The others shush him, but Dad's conscious and can hear their tiptoeing. His brother comes to the bedside and says loudly and distinctly, "How ya doin', Moss?" Dad gives him a hand squeeze as his answer before the brother takes the four grandchildren out for treats.

This leaves Dad's kids bickering over the various slights they've felt in his treatment at this hospital. One complains the hospital is nothing but a corporation, and that's the way they make you feel. "Nothin' but the bottom line!" Of course Dad hears all this and rallies once again to send them all away. The nurse hears his whisper and tells the family, "He wants to die alone." "We'll let you know ... one way or another." In the excitement, Dad's senses are sharpened, and he looks around the room. Though it's a little blurry, he makes out a lot of metallic technology. The buzzing and beeping of IV bags, with the intercom in the hall, adds to the feeling of malaise.

Nurses return to shift him. Dad whispers, "I'm dying, what's one more bedsore?" But rules and regulations being what they are...

All alone now, Dad decides, "No, I don't wanna die alone." He tries in vain to get the call light. He's thrashing as much as he can, but it's fallen halfway to the floor, dangling past the bottom of the bed. He tries to call out, but his voice is unheard, very raspy and weak. He rattles the bed. He wants everyone there for one last final goodbye. But instead he dies, his eyes rolling back in his head.

At the nurses' station a hush falls over one particular monitor. Part of the family's there nearby. They see the nurses rushing off. They trail quickly, sending the 14-year-old to find the others in the cafeteria. Everything's just rumor at this point. "What are they saying?" "They haven't said anything yet." "This could be it!"

Entering the room, they find Dad totally still. Others arrive, saying "Is he---?" The nods of silence and downcast eyes tell the story. The daughter offers up praying hands, a signal to the others that they go to silence. Especially appropos when the kids show up with the last bits of their cones. Nurses are quietly disconnecting spiggots. The uncle with the other sons come in. One son says, in a very solemn, dignified way, "He said he wanted to die alone. Now he's with Mom."

New Year's Eve: Judgment Of The Storm

Well, it's New Year's Eve again, a day for looking back on the old year passing as well as the promises of the new year coming. Of course you always hope when you reach it that looking back will be a happy time, and looking forward will be even happier. Alas, it doesn't always work out that way.

I woke up this morning feeling a little tired. The dog's had something wrong with her, and I heard her loudly hacking about 2 in the morning. I got up to see what was going on and there was a little yellow puddle of spit-up on the rug by my bed. I took it to the hamper, the dog following me, who then made signs like she needed to go out. We went out and she took a No. 2, the whole thing then sticking to her fur and needing to be cleaned off in the sink. I felt a little nauseous and couldn't get back to sleep.

I finally did doze off, and woke up to a winter wonderland in progress -- snow. It's snowing still, so this must be the day for it. I had breakfast, the toast burnt (need to check the dial each time) and my eggs messed up, meaning the yolk was hard. I thought, Crap, if this is how New Year's is going to go ... but I said I wouldn't be depressed. The snow is coming down, it's white and piling up like crazy, I need to see it as something of a promise, a new start.

A new start was what I would have! Wouldn't it be great to go out in the storm, there to eat a few flakes as they fell, thereby saving myself a little extra work later shoveling. And I could use the time to take personal inventory, matching beautifully, I hoped, the newness of the day to the oldness of my life. I took a look in the mirror, swallowing my morning pills. What a lot of lines. What's happening to me?

I went out and kicked a bit of snow and immediately stubbed my toe on a big rock. It didn't hurt terribly, so I walked on, thinking, thinking, ever thinking -- I can't stop, sometimes my thinking is torture. Thinking of everything I've done wrong in the course of the year, and how tomorrow's not likely to be any better. I'm the guy, you may recall, who brags about his willpower. Well, so much for willpower; I'm still eating bad, not getting enough exercise, I'm tired all the time, and my dog's sick. If I don't die, it'll be a miracle.

In my walk I thought I'd wander away from the yard, get down the street, and maybe my perspective would be different. Of course my feet and legs aren't used to lifting that much wet snow, with more coming down all the time. I'm thinking, I could just collapse here and die of exposure. There's nobody out today, they wouldn't find me for a week. Or I could test my limits and keep going, which I did.

Along the way I started thinking of all my regrets and personal failings. Here I am, almost 60, one foot in the grave, and what have I really accomplished? One day is about the same as any other, there's never any personal progress. Sure, I fill out the Sudoku in the newspaper once in a while, the easy ones. I write my blog. And the dog needs me; she's on her last legs. But that's it. My big hopes of sailing the world, winning a fortune in Monaco, owning a picturesque chalet in Switzerland, writing a bestseller, being the Fifth Beatle, and becoming the CEO of IHOP, are obviously doomed to failure. I can't even adequately convey the misery this gives me.

Having walked about as far as I physically could, I looked over. What?! The dog had gotten herself trapped in a big wet drift. I had to go over and use up 99% of my remaining strength getting her and myself out, once I'd become trapped. That meant I only had 1% strength left to make it all the way home! Which, think about it, it can't be done! I have no reserve.

But somehow I got home. I don't know how. Maybe the dog dragged me -- uphill. She seems out of breath, more so than usual. I was seeing these terrible red flashes when I blinked my eyes right before I (apparently) passed out. Then I don't remember anything else. But here I am, typing this. I have a cup of hot coffee, although I spilled the first cup and burnt my leg.

Yet, I'm still hoping for a Happy New Year -- and even if it's with my last dying breath, that's going to be my wish for you, too -- but I just don't see how it's going to happen...

Something Put Him In An Early Grave

This is about a friend of mine, the late Q------ Wiswell, who was never married yet somehow found himself put in an early grave. He was 42, a young age to die at.

I've given it a lot of thought, and I'm wondering what it might have been that was responsible for his premature demise. It's a sad thing when people die, especially people with any degree of closeness to me.

I met Quentin in church. Of course church is where a lot of healthy people go. They're known for keeping their lives square not only with the Lord but with man. So they're not given to various excesses that so often spell tragedy for those outside the fold. And yet he died ... and I never heard an actual reason why ... Just a bunch of whispers. 

What might it have been? Why would "Q" have died so early? Maybe he was living a secret life. That happens, you know. Folks aren't always what they seem to be; sometimes they're quite a bit different.

Could it have been a secret life of gambling and debt? There's lots of people who play the ponies or bet on sports or are addicted to card games and one-armed bandits who die early. Because they're not frugal with their money. They get in deep with the wrong crowd. And before you know it, their money's gone, and so are they! But I never knew "Q" to gamble, and he always seemed to have enough money. He gave me a nickel for a parking meter one time.

Could it have been a secret life of drugs and alcohol? I despise it when people get hooked on all this crap. They think they're having a good time, which probably they are, until it's too late. You start taking that shit and you'll always be chasing the first high. Unless you only drink wine for your heart. But I never once smelled anything on "Q" or noticed any odd staggering.

Could it have been a secret life of treachery and espionage against his country? It's doubtful. You hear of double agents and spies who turn on their country for money or ideological reasons. But I was at his place several times and never saw any weird insignias, flags, microfilm, carved pumpkins, etc. Plus, I was at his funeral and saw his body. He wasn't beheaded, so he was clean in this area.

Could it have been a secret life of womanizing? It might have been! I probably shouldn't tell tales, but I did actually see him once going into a club well known as a hangout for women taking their clothes off, called strippers. The imagination runs wild. I can well imagine these cute girls taking off their clothes a bit at a time, say a piece and a half for every song on the jukebox. Or, to be more exotic, a classier lady with props -- boas, scarves, a shag rug, or a playful dog puppet, sniffing around -- taking it all off in a classier way. The first girl, she's just stripping for a quick carnal excitement. The exotic lady actually puts the tease in striptease! That's what leaves you wanting more, not someone just moving mechanically (and sometimes lethargically) toward stark nudity.

It is very well likely that "Q" died from watching too many bad strippers. That would put me in an early grave, too.