February 2003 Issue - Essay # 3
Letting
Go
By Alan Steinberg
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This
is a telling without much sound, you see, because my sister was deaf and
my brother-in-law was deaf, and when they spoke they spoke in signs, and
the words were all in their fingers. There used to be sound, high,
unresonant sounds that they struggled to shape for those of us who could
hear. But as they grew older, the sounds mostly gave way to the noise of
pursed or puckered lips, soft, wet, popping sounds, like someone sucking
in the pink round bubbles of bubble gum and blowing them out again.
Towards the end my brother-in-law was so weak that even those sounds
wouldn't come. All he had were his fingers and even that they took from
him. My sister told me about it. It made me cry and swear both. It
was in the hospital. They had cut him open to get at the cancer, but
after they did they realized there was nothing to be done and so they
sewed him up again. In the recovery room, they tied his arms down so
that the intravenous tubes wouldn't come loose. It didn't matter to them
that he was deaf and that he talked through his fingers. Or perhaps they
were too busy and forgot. Hospitals always seem too busy for the small
things that make dying bearable. I
could only imagine the terror my brother-in-law felt when he awakened in
the white room with the glowing light. There would be mist. And pain.
And the slow drop of fluid down his veins. And then the agony of finding
his arms strapped to the bed. It was hours later that my sister found
out -- when she came inside and saw his arms fastened, and read his
face, his eyes, and heart. I
did not see him like that. My sister told me, her hands weaving the
story for me, her voice soft and sad and full of pain. The last time I
saw my brother-in-law he could still use his hands, still make his voice
work. I would walk with him around the small courtyard that lay, green
and fragrant, outside his apartment. It was a struggle for him to walk.
We walked it twice, stopping often so that he could catch his breath. He
held my hand to steady himself, but
it was done more out of love than need. After all, we were grown men and
grown men do not walk and hold hands out of love. But on the last time
around --the last time I held hands with him -- he stopped and drew me
to him and held me tight and told me in that high voice that he loved
me. He
was dying then, and I am certain that he knew. He did not say the words.
The doctors had not said them. My sister had not said them. I had not
said them. What I had said was "You must keep up your strength. You
must help your body fight." I had dreaded saying that to him. In
all the years I had never lied to him, not once. But my sister had
begged me. "He won't eat," she said to me. "He won't do
his exercises. Talk to him. He listens to you." So
I talked to him. I tried to make myself believe it so he would believe
it; so it wouldn't be a lie. And he did eat most of his supper and he
did come outside with me. And we did walk twice around the courtyard, in
the last light of a fine autumn day, with streaks of orange-red against
a blackening sky. I think he came with me so that it wouldn't be a lie. I
did not see him again until the funeral. He was in his coffin. Dead. I
don't say the word lightly. For those of you who have been to funerals
and looked in coffins, you know what I mean. It's the opposite of life.
It's at the far end of the universe from life. The color. The
frozenness. I think they make it worse by trying to make the corpse look
human -- as if they're only sleeping. It's another lie and nothing good
comes from lying. I would paint them in the most unnatural colors, so
that everyone would know the truth of death. The
funeral itself was different. It was full of life, full of the small
acts of courage and betrayal that make life what it is and so different
from extinction. I stood in the line by my sister. Though I am younger,
in these sorts of things we reverse ourselves and I give her strength.
It is mostly external. Inside, she is stronger than I. Strong as an ox.
But in times like these the outside is important, as well. She
could barely look at my brother-in-law, her husband. You could see she
was trying. But it was too much a lie, and in the end she turned away
and asked that they close the coffin. I don't blame her. Whatever he was
-- whatever he had been to her -- was not there in that long narrow box.
It could have been a stone sculpture, it was that dead. Like my
brother-in-law, my sister does not believe in lying. There
were two people at the funeral that my sister did not want to be there.
The first was my brother-in-law's doctor. I thought it very strange that
the doctor would come to the funeral. It is not something that is
usually done. Not any more. Doctors seem only to be mechanics of the
body, organ specialists. Or else they seem too busy, as if in
going they might imperil someone else. Besides, my sister thinks the doctor helped kill her husband. He had treated him for years for what he thought at first was an ulcer, then a digestive disorder. But he was wrong. In the end, it turned out to be a cancer. And when he finally found it, it was too late. It had wound its way around my brother's heart. I did not blame him exactly. Medicine is an imperfect science. But I did not expect that he would come, and I, too, thought it strangely awkward. The
second person was my brother-in-law's brother. My sister didn't want to
look at him. She wanted to keep him out even. I didn't blame her. He was
a despicable man. Can you imagine, he was ashamed of my brother-in-law's
deafness, as if it reflected badly on him; as if that somehow made my
brother-in-law less of a human being. When
I first found that out, I could hardly believe it. Here I was with only
a sister and from a broken home not given much to love. And then one day
my brother-in-law-to-be showed up and he brought me a baseball cap and
laughter and he loved me like a brother. In all the years I cannot
remember having an argument with him. Not once. Not even about things
that were unimportant. So
at first I agreed with my sister. At first, I wanted to be the one to
throw him out. But then it seemed to me that it didn't matter. Go or
stay, it was all the same. He had missed his chance. He had lost all
that love, all that laughter. I regretted then that they had closed the
coffin. Let him go and try to make it up now, I thought. Go weep and
kiss the stone sculpture. See how much that gets you. My
sister let it be. She looked down and bit her lip when he approached
her. But I, I shook his hand and looked him straight in the eye. It had
to hurt, my being in the line and not him -- brother-in-law instead of
brother. But life is full of hurt, and what goes round comes round. The
whole room was crowded with people. They came from all over. The deaf
world is an amazing world. Friendships last. Some of those who came were
classmates of my brother-in-law from elementary school. They'd kept in
touch all these years -- by letter and rendezvous and later by the
typing phone that was like a voice in the wilderness. I cried the first
time my sister spoke to me, the first time I saw the magic green letters
march beneath the glass. We
were led through the prayers. The Bible is well-stocked for death. There
are the psalms and then the Ecclesiastes. It was time to let my
brother-in-law go, we were told, both in words and sign. And then my
sister rose to speak. She walked calmly to the podium and let her
fingers talk. She
told about my brother-in-law's dying. It was the evening of their
anniversary. I had forgotten. She had spent a long time trying to get
him to eat. He could barely move and barely swallow. She lifted him. She
held the spoon and fork for him. He ate as best he could for her sake.
And then she helped him back to the bed and sat there with him as he
slept and woke. And it came to her then, as she watched him, how they
should celebrate their anniversary. "It's
all right," she told him. "You don't have to fight anymore.
It's all right to let go." And
he smiled and closed his eyes and let go. Her
hands rested a moment then in the telling, and I realized they were
strong hands for all their kindness and intelligence. This is not an
easy world when the best gift you can give someone is to let them die.
It's a world that needs strong hands. When
the service ended, we all drifted outside. There was another funeral
starting on the other side of the building and a space had to be cleared
for them. We passed each other as we walked. Outside, the day was full
of yellow sun and blue sky. It seemed for a moment that all the death
had been left inside. People mingled, reluctant to go, to break the
circle of life and friendship and grief. Most were still crying. Even
the doctor. I saw my brother-in-law's brother standing off to the side in lonely silence. For a moment, I weakened. I began to move towards him, but then I felt my sister's hand on my arm. It was a hard grip, certain and determined. It told me all I needed to know. |
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Author's Biography He has written and published fiction, poetry, and drama. His novel, Cry of the Leopard, was published by St. Martin's Press.
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Essay
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