As Soon As Possible
There's sometimes an odd feeling when you get a call or letter and are told that you'd better "get there as soon as possible." Often this doesn't bode well for usually that means that the person you need to see has been in an accident or has been seriously hurt or perhaps is close to dying. Sometimes there are restrictions on you, be they time or money or obligations. Who will take care of the kids or the dogs, and how much will that last-minute ticket be and do I have the time? But for me, both the letter and the call came and my obligations were few, and when that all happens what excuses did I have? An inconvenience? Grabbing a last minute flight or car or hotel room? Not a problem said my wife, who was more than understanding. Quick, the neighbor of my friend seconded; you'd best be here "as soon as possible." The person they were talking about was an old friend, an aunt of my friend really, a spitfire for someone so close to her 99th birthday. But what would I find out there once my plane landed and I rushed to her bedside at the care unit? A shell of a person? A person unable to speak or hooked to tubes or being deafened by beeping and whirring machines? This was the real delimma...to go or to just let it all be and to politely back out.
Once many years ago, my brother posed the same question to me only answering it for me as well. When I had called to ask about my uncle, now quite sickened and nearing the point where sustaining life on his own would be difficult at best (he was a thoracic surgeon so he was quite aware of the timetable and when the tides of life would begin to recede back out), my brother described his condition in a gentle way to me and then threw in a caveat; did I want to come out to say goodbye (same scenario as above...as soon as possible) or did I want to remember him as he was when I last saw him, healthy and jovial and well before even he knew that something would shortly begin to attack him as surely as an advancing army. In my uncle's case, I decided to let it be, a coward's way out perhaps but "justified" on my behalf over and over and leaving me with little guilt, even now. Perhaps it is different with family, not wanting that frail and distorted and unresponsive image burned into your head; it's a reality for many however, often an inescapable one, and looking back now it was indeed the less-courageous path on my part. But in trying to put myself into that situation, I remembered a friend who was dying of AIDS, his wishes very specific that only one trusted friend was to be his gatekeeper...nobody else would be allowed to see him; later on the gatekeeping friend told me that this once-charismatic friend we both knew was quite aware of what he was becoming and how quickly his appearance was shrinking and changing (he was a fanatic for fashion and remains the only person I knew who would buy $30 pairs of socks and $200 dress shirts, this back in the 80s when that amount was an even bigger chunk of one's pay). So I told myself (justification #37) that my uncle probably felt the same and didn't really want others to see him as he looked now, all jaunt and growing a bit jaundiced, just like my friend, same as I would probably feel in that situation. Yeah right. I should have gone.
So back to my aunt-friend. A spitfire as I mentioned, someone even one of her nurses described as "sharp as a tack." The morning of my departure I was early on everything. Early to the airport (they put me on an earlier flight); early to the car rental (no problem, there's a car ready); early to the hotel room (it's okay, let's get you checked in); perhaps things were going to work out after all. I got to the assisted living facility where she was housed, a place full of pleasant faces and people wheeling themselves around in their wheelchairs or shuffling through the walkways with their braking mobile carts, a scene straight out of the many such facilities my mother had resided in, just now in a different city. No, I was told, my friend was in yet another part of the building, way down the hall at the very end. I took a small gulp, then a quick breath. I had made it this far; no turning back now. I was at her room. I peeked in...she was asleep (phew). A bit more frail (okay, a lot more frail) than I remember, but her sleeping gave me a bit of time to take it all in. I'll come back a little later I whispered to her, as if not wanting to wake or disturb her; and poof, just like something out of Snow White, she opened her eyes, turned to me, and instantly called my name. You made it, she said, and for the next five hours we chatted away as if we were two old ladies having afternoon tea. She was indeed still sharp as a tack, so much so that often she would bark orders at me. Put that envelope there, no NOT there but behind the folder, BEHIND the folder, my hand trembling a bit and meekly sliding the letter and envelope over one container than onto a different section as if it were about to be sliced off by this whiplash of a tongue. Then she would smile and joke about some old tale I either did or didn't know, and I would rebut with some tale of mine as if age be damned, she wasn't going to get one over on me even if she was almost 99. And laugh, laugh, laugh. How could this dang 98-year old make me laugh so much?
The nurse told me that yes, my ancient friend was on watch, her life basically now hers to decide but the time was coming, a week or two at most if the textbook studies held true. I was so pleasantly surprised I told the nurse, especially since I was told to rush out only to discover that she is cackling like some renewed force had taken over her body. No, the nurse said, she's pretty bad off...sharp as a tack but life and end of life decisions now her own, and with that she walked away as if to show that she was as puzzled as I was. I had brought a few photos on my phone, went to the super-store and plopped them into one of those Kodak instant machines and 2 minutes later had a glossy 8x10 photo enlargement in hand, a picture of her brother standing next to his daughter, a photo captured and held by me because I used to date that lovely daughter and my pack-rat skills had somehow meticulously held onto this slide for dang near four decades (a slide, no less, you know those pieces of film encapsulated between two pieces of stock paper to be later projected onto a 4-foot square foldaway screen...every almost-wealthy home had one, even the schools; but in today's world, slides are only vaguely recognized by even the most high-tech store, something destined for the few remaining home scanners or online desperados...I just took a picture of the slide with my phone and presto, problem solved). Ah, my brother, she told me as she gazed at the enlargement, standing there with his daughter, her niece...wonderful. And it was...wonderful that is. Her spirits high, perhaps as high as mine. Be back tomorrow, I told her, as I left the room, as cheery as little Opie walking down the path whistling in an old black & white tv episode. I was glad that I came...and perhaps I would have felt the same had I gone to see my uncle. Who knows? And when the next "get here as soon as possible" call came would I respond in the same way? Or would it depend on who it was, or how close I was to them now, or if it was a family member? Who knows...the question then will be, will I have learned anything?
Once many years ago, my brother posed the same question to me only answering it for me as well. When I had called to ask about my uncle, now quite sickened and nearing the point where sustaining life on his own would be difficult at best (he was a thoracic surgeon so he was quite aware of the timetable and when the tides of life would begin to recede back out), my brother described his condition in a gentle way to me and then threw in a caveat; did I want to come out to say goodbye (same scenario as above...as soon as possible) or did I want to remember him as he was when I last saw him, healthy and jovial and well before even he knew that something would shortly begin to attack him as surely as an advancing army. In my uncle's case, I decided to let it be, a coward's way out perhaps but "justified" on my behalf over and over and leaving me with little guilt, even now. Perhaps it is different with family, not wanting that frail and distorted and unresponsive image burned into your head; it's a reality for many however, often an inescapable one, and looking back now it was indeed the less-courageous path on my part. But in trying to put myself into that situation, I remembered a friend who was dying of AIDS, his wishes very specific that only one trusted friend was to be his gatekeeper...nobody else would be allowed to see him; later on the gatekeeping friend told me that this once-charismatic friend we both knew was quite aware of what he was becoming and how quickly his appearance was shrinking and changing (he was a fanatic for fashion and remains the only person I knew who would buy $30 pairs of socks and $200 dress shirts, this back in the 80s when that amount was an even bigger chunk of one's pay). So I told myself (justification #37) that my uncle probably felt the same and didn't really want others to see him as he looked now, all jaunt and growing a bit jaundiced, just like my friend, same as I would probably feel in that situation. Yeah right. I should have gone.
So back to my aunt-friend. A spitfire as I mentioned, someone even one of her nurses described as "sharp as a tack." The morning of my departure I was early on everything. Early to the airport (they put me on an earlier flight); early to the car rental (no problem, there's a car ready); early to the hotel room (it's okay, let's get you checked in); perhaps things were going to work out after all. I got to the assisted living facility where she was housed, a place full of pleasant faces and people wheeling themselves around in their wheelchairs or shuffling through the walkways with their braking mobile carts, a scene straight out of the many such facilities my mother had resided in, just now in a different city. No, I was told, my friend was in yet another part of the building, way down the hall at the very end. I took a small gulp, then a quick breath. I had made it this far; no turning back now. I was at her room. I peeked in...she was asleep (phew). A bit more frail (okay, a lot more frail) than I remember, but her sleeping gave me a bit of time to take it all in. I'll come back a little later I whispered to her, as if not wanting to wake or disturb her; and poof, just like something out of Snow White, she opened her eyes, turned to me, and instantly called my name. You made it, she said, and for the next five hours we chatted away as if we were two old ladies having afternoon tea. She was indeed still sharp as a tack, so much so that often she would bark orders at me. Put that envelope there, no NOT there but behind the folder, BEHIND the folder, my hand trembling a bit and meekly sliding the letter and envelope over one container than onto a different section as if it were about to be sliced off by this whiplash of a tongue. Then she would smile and joke about some old tale I either did or didn't know, and I would rebut with some tale of mine as if age be damned, she wasn't going to get one over on me even if she was almost 99. And laugh, laugh, laugh. How could this dang 98-year old make me laugh so much?
The nurse told me that yes, my ancient friend was on watch, her life basically now hers to decide but the time was coming, a week or two at most if the textbook studies held true. I was so pleasantly surprised I told the nurse, especially since I was told to rush out only to discover that she is cackling like some renewed force had taken over her body. No, the nurse said, she's pretty bad off...sharp as a tack but life and end of life decisions now her own, and with that she walked away as if to show that she was as puzzled as I was. I had brought a few photos on my phone, went to the super-store and plopped them into one of those Kodak instant machines and 2 minutes later had a glossy 8x10 photo enlargement in hand, a picture of her brother standing next to his daughter, a photo captured and held by me because I used to date that lovely daughter and my pack-rat skills had somehow meticulously held onto this slide for dang near four decades (a slide, no less, you know those pieces of film encapsulated between two pieces of stock paper to be later projected onto a 4-foot square foldaway screen...every almost-wealthy home had one, even the schools; but in today's world, slides are only vaguely recognized by even the most high-tech store, something destined for the few remaining home scanners or online desperados...I just took a picture of the slide with my phone and presto, problem solved). Ah, my brother, she told me as she gazed at the enlargement, standing there with his daughter, her niece...wonderful. And it was...wonderful that is. Her spirits high, perhaps as high as mine. Be back tomorrow, I told her, as I left the room, as cheery as little Opie walking down the path whistling in an old black & white tv episode. I was glad that I came...and perhaps I would have felt the same had I gone to see my uncle. Who knows? And when the next "get here as soon as possible" call came would I respond in the same way? Or would it depend on who it was, or how close I was to them now, or if it was a family member? Who knows...the question then will be, will I have learned anything?
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