You
know the wonderful Gertrude Stein-Alice B. Toklais-story? The one where Alice
asks Gertrude, as she lays
dying, "Gertrude, what is the answer?" and Gertrude responds,
"Alice, what is the question?"
Well, it doesn't happen that way.
People's final words just aren't all that profound.
My father, on his deathbed, cancer eating his once two hundred pound body
to nearly half its weight, signaled me to come close to him. His eyes
penetrating mine, he gathered his last bit of energy and whispered,
"Bedpan."
He
died moments later.
My
mother lived with us in the final stages of congenital heart failure. By
the end, she could barely walk on her own, barely breathe without an
oxygen tank, yet she managed to write me a note the night before she
passed. It read: "Wayne
, there's an odor coming from
the bathroom sink. Fix it."
And people wonder why my world view is a little off center and my sense of
humor so cynical. It's not that I'm insensitive to life's most sacred
moments; it's just that I don't see much of a difference between the
sacred and
the mundane.
Contrary to myth, people aren't at their best when dying. And that's the
way it should be.
We shouldn't look to death for dignity and honor and answers to our most
profound questions.
That's what living is for.