"FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH"
Jason pressed the plunger on the morphine dispenser, then checked the clock. One hour and twelve minutes this time, and he’d clicked the dispenser only once. He closed his eyes and waited for relief. Just two weeks ago, when the hospital had given him the patient controlled dispenser, he’d been able to hold out for at least two hours each time. He’d held onto that, priding himself on being able to do so, for over a week, even though the pain became excruciating as he watched the clock, counting down the minutes, then the seconds until the two hours were up and even though he had to click the dispenser twice to relieve that terrible pain.
“Mama, mama, mama!” he’d wanted to cry as those last seconds counted down.
“I’m here,” he heard her saying as she stretched out a soft hand to push back his hair, just a memory now, as was she. She’d done that when he’d had whooping cough all those years ago. “Just hold on. You can do it. Everything will be all right. This is just a test, like in school or at the track. This is God’s test for you, and for us, and you’re going to pass it. And we’re going to be so proud of you. Dad and me both. It’s all for the best, you’ll see. You’ll be stronger. We’ll all be stronger.”
That had meant so much to him, comforted him. Not just her soft hand but her strong words, words pushing strength into him even as the coughing fits tore at his little boy’s body. Strange, he thought later, much later, when he was full grown, the man his parents had molded him to be, how words that were so tough, that offered no sympathy for what he, just a kid, was going through but instead pictured what he was suffering in a frame of purpose and understanding, strange how consoling that could be, even for a child who couldn’t possibly understand. Was it because it was his mother saying it? Was it seeing his image in her vision that made it bearable?” He still didn’t know.
He felt the metal of the base holding the morphine button, ran his fingertips fondly over it, drawing strength there now. The metal was cool and smooth. That felt so good, nothing like his clammy, rotting body with all its blemishes and wrinkles, sags and bumps, sores and corruption. It was good to know that there were still hard, smooth things in the world, things he could rely on to fight the relentless attack of his body. Together they had defended the parapets of his spirit, kept up those two-hour intervals for a full week, much longer than anyone had thought he could hang on. He could see that on their faces, the nurses and doctors, could see their surprise, though he could also see that most didn’t understand why he bothered, didn’t understand the purpose of holding out against the pain, the pain that got so shrill as the seconds counted down. Theirs was a comforting profession, and they’d given him the means to find comfort at the touch of a button—so why didn’t he take it?
“Have you read What’s the Matter with Kansas?” he’d once asked Jane, the night nurse, when she’d come in to check on him and found him, sweating, gritting his teeth, rigid with pain as he counted down the last minute thirty.
She’d just stood there, at the foot of his bed, staring at him. Finally, she said, “Is that where you grew up?”
The non sequitor is the surest evidence of non-comprehension, he’d said to himself. Wish I’d thought of that with that Walker boy. He had to be the densest fool who ever took logic. Probably what made him a popular governor.
“You have a minute to spare?” he said aloud.
“Sure. What can I do for you?”
“Just stand there. Don’t touch a thing. Watch the clock for me, so I can close my eyes. Tell me when the second hand is straight up.”
What a strange man, Jane thought. But she did as he asked. After a minute, she said, “Time.”
“Good,” he gasped between clenched teeth. “Thanks for the help.” He pushed the morphine button, double-clicked it, admitting he needed extra.
Finally, he’d had to give up on holding out for two hours. Or rather, to put it more accurately—Jason had always been a stickler for accuracy—he had given up on holding out. No one had forced him to give up just then. He could have held out for another two-hour interval. The pain, the sweats, the cramps, the spasms, the indignity weren’t remarkably worse that last time than the time before, and they wouldn’t have been remarkably worse the next time. Since he’d been able to overcome them that last time, he’d have been able to do it again the next time. It was like running a marathon: after ten miles, every step hurt, but no step hurt remarkably more than the last one. So, how come people drop out, unable to finish the race? Now he knew: it’s not that the runner can’t bear the pain anymore; it’s just that he decides it isn’t worth it anymore—finishing the race, that is. And “decide” probably isn’t the right word. It’s not a reasoned process, a weighing of costs and benefits. But neither is it a reflex, a mechanism, some subconscious process of which the individual is unaware. No, there just comes a point when you choose to put the burden down, when you give up on that goal—finishing the marathon—to pursue another: relieving the ache and pain of running.
It had been like that for Jason. He had set the goal of fighting the pain for at least two hours, proving he could tough it out for that long, even though it was now within his power to relieve the pain after just one hour. He’d always been like that, setting goals for himself, difficult ones, challenging himself to win through, triumph over adversity. Like the February he decided to lose twenty pounds. He’d lived on carrot sticks, had not even one drink—he who loved martinis—and had had to explain to the police, after a neighbor had complained of a peeping tom, that he had to walk ten miles a day no matter how late or foul the weather. And he’d made it: twenty pounds and three ounces.
And that’s how it had been with the morphine. It wasn’t that he was trying to impress the doctors or nurses. It was a goal he’d set for himself, because that’s what life had always been for him: fighting through challenges. Somehow, he’d always felt that he had to justify being alive—taking up space, breathing air, drinking water, eating food that could have sustained someone else—and he’d done that by always having some goal to work toward. And even now that he was dying, in the terminal stages of colon cancer, he still felt he had to prove his life was worth sustaining. He could set a good example, show that he still had spirit, courage, that even though he was going to lose his battle with death—as we all eventually do—death was only going to take his life, not his resolve, his character, his persona. And he hadn’t given up on that; after all, what else was there left to his life? So, even though he had to adjust his goals as the cancer spread, admitting that the goal he could attain yesterday he couldn’t make today, he never gave up on having goals, tough ones.
He remembered reading Sartre’s “Republic of Silence” that first year at Cal. That’s when he’d lost his faith but found his hero. He could still see, vividly, in 3D and Technicolor, the Resistance fighter tied to a dungeon wall, strapped so tight he couldn’t move a finger. This man—yes, it was always a man for Jason—who had fought the Nazis, killed them even, with guns or grenades, knives or clubs, whatever he could get his hands on and wield with lethal force, now here he was, stuck to the wall, like a netted bug imprisoned in a cocoon of ropes. He couldn’t move, had to admit that he posed not even the slightest threat to the Nazis now. But had they won? Had he lost? No! He was still a warrior, still free to strain against the ropes. Even if he couldn’t budge those ropes, he never had to accept that; he could always fight against what fate had dealt him, even when all that was left him was that, never to accept. That was Jason’s hero, the image that had guided his choices for fifty years, as he pushed back at life.
Jason opened his eyes. The morphine was kicking in, and he could bear to see the light. He looked out the window, watched the cars moving in the hospital parking lot, fixed on a green Beamer that slid smoothly into a tight space. I hope Spence enjoys Marlene as much as I did” he thought, remembering his blue angel BMW and how good it had felt to rack her through her paces on the way up 50 to Tahoe. He hadn’t seen any point in making Spencer wait to inherit the car, once he knew he would never drive her again, but he’d teared up after signing the pink slip over to his son. He hoped nobody had seen that, what a cliché, loving a car.
“How’re we doing today, Jason?” Kathryn said, striding through the door to stand next to his bed.
“One hour, twelve minutes.”
“That’s great!” the angular, athletic afternoon nurse said, understanding. “But you know, it’s strictly up to you. That’s what so great about the patient-controlled dispensers: you can regulate the medication as you feel you need it, strictly for your benefit. You can get relief every thirty minutes now. You don’t have to wait for one of us nurses to check on you”
“That’s just what I’m doing,” Jason said, “what benefits me the most.”
Kathryn smiled professionally. “Can I get you anything? A popsicle maybe?”
“No, I’m fine for now.”
“How about I send in one of the volunteers to keep you company? Darlene Benjamin is here today. You can talk politics with her. She may be even more liberal than you are. Anyway, she’s really up on all that stuff.”
“Thanks, but all that’s just a diversion for me now. There’s nothing more I can do about such things, not from where I am, not with the time I have left.”
“Nothing wrong with a little diversion. And she’s pretty, too.”
“Pretty’s good,” Jason said, smiling. “In college, I spent hours sitting at the cafeteria window, nursing a cup of coffee, watching all the pretty coeds walk by. I told myself I was studying people, doing what a writer had to do, storing up characters who’d appear later in my stories.”
“And did they?”
“Oh, some did, sure. But really, I just liked watching the pretty girls.”
“Well, then, you’ll love Darlene.”
I sure loved Emily, Jason thought. Loved the sight of her, that heart-shaped face with those smart, grey eyes and the straight, black hair that fell all the way to her waist. Loved the way she sounded, humming as she worked, purring as she slept. Loved how good she made me feel, at home, in bed, on the road, always there for me, making me feel that there would be a void in her life without me. “She wasn’t supposed to die first,” he said aloud, not realizing he had.
“What?” Kathryn said.
“Oh, nothing,” Jason replied, snapping back, “I was remembering one of those pretty girls. The prettiest.”
“So, should I tell Darlene to come visit?” Kathryn said.
“Maybe another day,” Jason answered. “For now, I have other things on my mind. A pretty diversion is not what the doctor is calling for, not right now.”
“Okay, professor,” Kathryn sighed. “I’ll check on you later.”
“That would be lovely,” Jason said, smiling.
Kathryn appreciated the word play, would note it as a positive sign on his chart, returned the smile and left. The door closed with a quiet, pneumatic swoosh behind her, clicking ever so slightly as it settled into the frame. Jason appreciated the smoothly closing door, as he did the smooth metal of his morphine dispenser. Another ally still standing tall, he said to himself.
Jason returned to looking out the window, though he wasn’t focused on what was going on out there. That morning he’d started thinking about something new, and he was intent on using the time he had now to develop that thought, before fighting the pain again demanded his attention. He’d never feared death. Being an atheist, he believed that death was just the end of consciousness. No hell fire, eternal torment. Nothing like that. Just nothing. If he’d feared anything, it was the time leading up to that nothing, dying in pain and indignity—just what was happening to him now. But he had that under control. He was preserving his dignity by fighting the pain. But this morning he’d started thinking about those final moments before the nothing. Those last thoughts, if “thoughts” was the right word, what would they be like?
Of course, he’d heard the stories of people who’d gone through those moments and returned. He’d even bought several books—from the scientific to the pseudo-scientific to the unapologetically religious—about near-death experiences and carefully read them through. He knew all about the weight the body was supposed to lose at the moment of death, about the spirits—some smiling, some gloating—supposedly hovering over the deceased, about the warm, inviting light, about the departed friends and family smiling warmly, even the departed pets coming back to greet the newly dead, coming to welcome him or her to that better world on the other side of rainbow bridge. He certainly felt the tug of these stories, especially the sentimental poetry of “Rainbow Bridge.” He would love to see his favorite pets again, from Rufus, the tireless Golden Retriever who’d romped through childhood with him, to Xavier, the champagne Maltese who was always at Emily’s good hand after her stroke, and followed him everywhere after she was gone. He’d love to see their tails wagging and eyes bright again almost as much as he’d love to take Emily’s hand and walk along the beach at sunset once more .
But he hadn’t believed a word of it. He figured the brain, untethered from the real world by the dying senses, was indulging in wishful thinking,, projecting images of what the person had always hoped death would be. He rejected that, of course, always having prided himself on facing facts, he’d never indulged in the consolation of wish-fulfillment. Those people who loudly proclaimed their faith in God, taking pride in believing in something without evidence, just because it made them feel better to believe it—gave them hope and inspiration, the will to carry on through the adversities of life they wouldn’t be able to face on their own—that whole Jamesian “will to believe” attitude had always turned him off. Like Nietzsche said, they’re just “sheep congratulating themselves on being sheep,” he’d remind himself, feeling the cut of reality’s lash as he watched Emily and the dogs fade into the mist.
But this morning he had started to question. Not the way one should lead his life. He was still sure we should face facts as we go about our lives. But what about those very last moments of consciousness? Surely they were unique; surely it was possible that what was required of all those other moments, when life was on-going, might not apply to those final moments when life was ending. Would it be so wrong to indulge oneself in those last moments? No one else would ever know, and you wouldn’t have to live with that, knowing what you’d done. So why not pass those last moments forsaking reality to live in the imagination of what you wanted? Seeing Emily’s out-stretched arms, her warm and loving smile, the dogs barking happily, dancing on their hind legs, pawing the air with their front, as you crossed that magical, beautiful bridge of light, coming home to where you were loved. … So none of it was true. So what did that matter?
Jason had mulled that over and over, unable to find anything wrong with that idea, but then he’d seen the rub: could he actually do that. Having dedicated his life to facing facts, to striving after goals, could he set that burden down and spend those last moments believing what he wanted? Are we not only condemned to die but to dying as we had lived? Was that the truth behind all that religious mumbo-jumbo: that although there was no “life ever-lasting,” having practiced wish-fulfillment all one’s life, one would be able to pass out of life in the comfort of believing he was on his way to heaven, while those unpracticed in self-deception had to die unconsoled. Or was that the ultimate challenge, both the very last and the very hardest goal he had to set himself, the final, fleeting little bit of good he could do on earth: to comfort himself just before the end that it was not the end?
Jason tried to focus on those questions, feeling as he had when he’d been in college facing the conundrums of Hegel’s dialectic and the paradoxes of Sartrean freedom. He couldn’t bear the idea of having come all this way, of having worked so hard at life, only to be tripped up by a freshman philosophy puzzle just before the end. There had to be a solution, there just had to be. And he had to find it. But just now the pain was coming back. For the next twenty-three minutes he had to fight that now-familiar battle.
Published in The California Writers Club Literary Journal (2012-133), pp. 9-13.
“Mama, mama, mama!” he’d wanted to cry as those last seconds counted down.
“I’m here,” he heard her saying as she stretched out a soft hand to push back his hair, just a memory now, as was she. She’d done that when he’d had whooping cough all those years ago. “Just hold on. You can do it. Everything will be all right. This is just a test, like in school or at the track. This is God’s test for you, and for us, and you’re going to pass it. And we’re going to be so proud of you. Dad and me both. It’s all for the best, you’ll see. You’ll be stronger. We’ll all be stronger.”
That had meant so much to him, comforted him. Not just her soft hand but her strong words, words pushing strength into him even as the coughing fits tore at his little boy’s body. Strange, he thought later, much later, when he was full grown, the man his parents had molded him to be, how words that were so tough, that offered no sympathy for what he, just a kid, was going through but instead pictured what he was suffering in a frame of purpose and understanding, strange how consoling that could be, even for a child who couldn’t possibly understand. Was it because it was his mother saying it? Was it seeing his image in her vision that made it bearable?” He still didn’t know.
He felt the metal of the base holding the morphine button, ran his fingertips fondly over it, drawing strength there now. The metal was cool and smooth. That felt so good, nothing like his clammy, rotting body with all its blemishes and wrinkles, sags and bumps, sores and corruption. It was good to know that there were still hard, smooth things in the world, things he could rely on to fight the relentless attack of his body. Together they had defended the parapets of his spirit, kept up those two-hour intervals for a full week, much longer than anyone had thought he could hang on. He could see that on their faces, the nurses and doctors, could see their surprise, though he could also see that most didn’t understand why he bothered, didn’t understand the purpose of holding out against the pain, the pain that got so shrill as the seconds counted down. Theirs was a comforting profession, and they’d given him the means to find comfort at the touch of a button—so why didn’t he take it?
“Have you read What’s the Matter with Kansas?” he’d once asked Jane, the night nurse, when she’d come in to check on him and found him, sweating, gritting his teeth, rigid with pain as he counted down the last minute thirty.
She’d just stood there, at the foot of his bed, staring at him. Finally, she said, “Is that where you grew up?”
The non sequitor is the surest evidence of non-comprehension, he’d said to himself. Wish I’d thought of that with that Walker boy. He had to be the densest fool who ever took logic. Probably what made him a popular governor.
“You have a minute to spare?” he said aloud.
“Sure. What can I do for you?”
“Just stand there. Don’t touch a thing. Watch the clock for me, so I can close my eyes. Tell me when the second hand is straight up.”
What a strange man, Jane thought. But she did as he asked. After a minute, she said, “Time.”
“Good,” he gasped between clenched teeth. “Thanks for the help.” He pushed the morphine button, double-clicked it, admitting he needed extra.
Finally, he’d had to give up on holding out for two hours. Or rather, to put it more accurately—Jason had always been a stickler for accuracy—he had given up on holding out. No one had forced him to give up just then. He could have held out for another two-hour interval. The pain, the sweats, the cramps, the spasms, the indignity weren’t remarkably worse that last time than the time before, and they wouldn’t have been remarkably worse the next time. Since he’d been able to overcome them that last time, he’d have been able to do it again the next time. It was like running a marathon: after ten miles, every step hurt, but no step hurt remarkably more than the last one. So, how come people drop out, unable to finish the race? Now he knew: it’s not that the runner can’t bear the pain anymore; it’s just that he decides it isn’t worth it anymore—finishing the race, that is. And “decide” probably isn’t the right word. It’s not a reasoned process, a weighing of costs and benefits. But neither is it a reflex, a mechanism, some subconscious process of which the individual is unaware. No, there just comes a point when you choose to put the burden down, when you give up on that goal—finishing the marathon—to pursue another: relieving the ache and pain of running.
It had been like that for Jason. He had set the goal of fighting the pain for at least two hours, proving he could tough it out for that long, even though it was now within his power to relieve the pain after just one hour. He’d always been like that, setting goals for himself, difficult ones, challenging himself to win through, triumph over adversity. Like the February he decided to lose twenty pounds. He’d lived on carrot sticks, had not even one drink—he who loved martinis—and had had to explain to the police, after a neighbor had complained of a peeping tom, that he had to walk ten miles a day no matter how late or foul the weather. And he’d made it: twenty pounds and three ounces.
And that’s how it had been with the morphine. It wasn’t that he was trying to impress the doctors or nurses. It was a goal he’d set for himself, because that’s what life had always been for him: fighting through challenges. Somehow, he’d always felt that he had to justify being alive—taking up space, breathing air, drinking water, eating food that could have sustained someone else—and he’d done that by always having some goal to work toward. And even now that he was dying, in the terminal stages of colon cancer, he still felt he had to prove his life was worth sustaining. He could set a good example, show that he still had spirit, courage, that even though he was going to lose his battle with death—as we all eventually do—death was only going to take his life, not his resolve, his character, his persona. And he hadn’t given up on that; after all, what else was there left to his life? So, even though he had to adjust his goals as the cancer spread, admitting that the goal he could attain yesterday he couldn’t make today, he never gave up on having goals, tough ones.
He remembered reading Sartre’s “Republic of Silence” that first year at Cal. That’s when he’d lost his faith but found his hero. He could still see, vividly, in 3D and Technicolor, the Resistance fighter tied to a dungeon wall, strapped so tight he couldn’t move a finger. This man—yes, it was always a man for Jason—who had fought the Nazis, killed them even, with guns or grenades, knives or clubs, whatever he could get his hands on and wield with lethal force, now here he was, stuck to the wall, like a netted bug imprisoned in a cocoon of ropes. He couldn’t move, had to admit that he posed not even the slightest threat to the Nazis now. But had they won? Had he lost? No! He was still a warrior, still free to strain against the ropes. Even if he couldn’t budge those ropes, he never had to accept that; he could always fight against what fate had dealt him, even when all that was left him was that, never to accept. That was Jason’s hero, the image that had guided his choices for fifty years, as he pushed back at life.
Jason opened his eyes. The morphine was kicking in, and he could bear to see the light. He looked out the window, watched the cars moving in the hospital parking lot, fixed on a green Beamer that slid smoothly into a tight space. I hope Spence enjoys Marlene as much as I did” he thought, remembering his blue angel BMW and how good it had felt to rack her through her paces on the way up 50 to Tahoe. He hadn’t seen any point in making Spencer wait to inherit the car, once he knew he would never drive her again, but he’d teared up after signing the pink slip over to his son. He hoped nobody had seen that, what a cliché, loving a car.
“How’re we doing today, Jason?” Kathryn said, striding through the door to stand next to his bed.
“One hour, twelve minutes.”
“That’s great!” the angular, athletic afternoon nurse said, understanding. “But you know, it’s strictly up to you. That’s what so great about the patient-controlled dispensers: you can regulate the medication as you feel you need it, strictly for your benefit. You can get relief every thirty minutes now. You don’t have to wait for one of us nurses to check on you”
“That’s just what I’m doing,” Jason said, “what benefits me the most.”
Kathryn smiled professionally. “Can I get you anything? A popsicle maybe?”
“No, I’m fine for now.”
“How about I send in one of the volunteers to keep you company? Darlene Benjamin is here today. You can talk politics with her. She may be even more liberal than you are. Anyway, she’s really up on all that stuff.”
“Thanks, but all that’s just a diversion for me now. There’s nothing more I can do about such things, not from where I am, not with the time I have left.”
“Nothing wrong with a little diversion. And she’s pretty, too.”
“Pretty’s good,” Jason said, smiling. “In college, I spent hours sitting at the cafeteria window, nursing a cup of coffee, watching all the pretty coeds walk by. I told myself I was studying people, doing what a writer had to do, storing up characters who’d appear later in my stories.”
“And did they?”
“Oh, some did, sure. But really, I just liked watching the pretty girls.”
“Well, then, you’ll love Darlene.”
I sure loved Emily, Jason thought. Loved the sight of her, that heart-shaped face with those smart, grey eyes and the straight, black hair that fell all the way to her waist. Loved the way she sounded, humming as she worked, purring as she slept. Loved how good she made me feel, at home, in bed, on the road, always there for me, making me feel that there would be a void in her life without me. “She wasn’t supposed to die first,” he said aloud, not realizing he had.
“What?” Kathryn said.
“Oh, nothing,” Jason replied, snapping back, “I was remembering one of those pretty girls. The prettiest.”
“So, should I tell Darlene to come visit?” Kathryn said.
“Maybe another day,” Jason answered. “For now, I have other things on my mind. A pretty diversion is not what the doctor is calling for, not right now.”
“Okay, professor,” Kathryn sighed. “I’ll check on you later.”
“That would be lovely,” Jason said, smiling.
Kathryn appreciated the word play, would note it as a positive sign on his chart, returned the smile and left. The door closed with a quiet, pneumatic swoosh behind her, clicking ever so slightly as it settled into the frame. Jason appreciated the smoothly closing door, as he did the smooth metal of his morphine dispenser. Another ally still standing tall, he said to himself.
Jason returned to looking out the window, though he wasn’t focused on what was going on out there. That morning he’d started thinking about something new, and he was intent on using the time he had now to develop that thought, before fighting the pain again demanded his attention. He’d never feared death. Being an atheist, he believed that death was just the end of consciousness. No hell fire, eternal torment. Nothing like that. Just nothing. If he’d feared anything, it was the time leading up to that nothing, dying in pain and indignity—just what was happening to him now. But he had that under control. He was preserving his dignity by fighting the pain. But this morning he’d started thinking about those final moments before the nothing. Those last thoughts, if “thoughts” was the right word, what would they be like?
Of course, he’d heard the stories of people who’d gone through those moments and returned. He’d even bought several books—from the scientific to the pseudo-scientific to the unapologetically religious—about near-death experiences and carefully read them through. He knew all about the weight the body was supposed to lose at the moment of death, about the spirits—some smiling, some gloating—supposedly hovering over the deceased, about the warm, inviting light, about the departed friends and family smiling warmly, even the departed pets coming back to greet the newly dead, coming to welcome him or her to that better world on the other side of rainbow bridge. He certainly felt the tug of these stories, especially the sentimental poetry of “Rainbow Bridge.” He would love to see his favorite pets again, from Rufus, the tireless Golden Retriever who’d romped through childhood with him, to Xavier, the champagne Maltese who was always at Emily’s good hand after her stroke, and followed him everywhere after she was gone. He’d love to see their tails wagging and eyes bright again almost as much as he’d love to take Emily’s hand and walk along the beach at sunset once more .
But he hadn’t believed a word of it. He figured the brain, untethered from the real world by the dying senses, was indulging in wishful thinking,, projecting images of what the person had always hoped death would be. He rejected that, of course, always having prided himself on facing facts, he’d never indulged in the consolation of wish-fulfillment. Those people who loudly proclaimed their faith in God, taking pride in believing in something without evidence, just because it made them feel better to believe it—gave them hope and inspiration, the will to carry on through the adversities of life they wouldn’t be able to face on their own—that whole Jamesian “will to believe” attitude had always turned him off. Like Nietzsche said, they’re just “sheep congratulating themselves on being sheep,” he’d remind himself, feeling the cut of reality’s lash as he watched Emily and the dogs fade into the mist.
But this morning he had started to question. Not the way one should lead his life. He was still sure we should face facts as we go about our lives. But what about those very last moments of consciousness? Surely they were unique; surely it was possible that what was required of all those other moments, when life was on-going, might not apply to those final moments when life was ending. Would it be so wrong to indulge oneself in those last moments? No one else would ever know, and you wouldn’t have to live with that, knowing what you’d done. So why not pass those last moments forsaking reality to live in the imagination of what you wanted? Seeing Emily’s out-stretched arms, her warm and loving smile, the dogs barking happily, dancing on their hind legs, pawing the air with their front, as you crossed that magical, beautiful bridge of light, coming home to where you were loved. … So none of it was true. So what did that matter?
Jason had mulled that over and over, unable to find anything wrong with that idea, but then he’d seen the rub: could he actually do that. Having dedicated his life to facing facts, to striving after goals, could he set that burden down and spend those last moments believing what he wanted? Are we not only condemned to die but to dying as we had lived? Was that the truth behind all that religious mumbo-jumbo: that although there was no “life ever-lasting,” having practiced wish-fulfillment all one’s life, one would be able to pass out of life in the comfort of believing he was on his way to heaven, while those unpracticed in self-deception had to die unconsoled. Or was that the ultimate challenge, both the very last and the very hardest goal he had to set himself, the final, fleeting little bit of good he could do on earth: to comfort himself just before the end that it was not the end?
Jason tried to focus on those questions, feeling as he had when he’d been in college facing the conundrums of Hegel’s dialectic and the paradoxes of Sartrean freedom. He couldn’t bear the idea of having come all this way, of having worked so hard at life, only to be tripped up by a freshman philosophy puzzle just before the end. There had to be a solution, there just had to be. And he had to find it. But just now the pain was coming back. For the next twenty-three minutes he had to fight that now-familiar battle.
Published in The California Writers Club Literary Journal (2012-133), pp. 9-13.