No death unsung

No death unsung
13 February, 2012

   Death can be delayed, but cannot be indefinitely forestalled. If one is ill, one can seek treatment, make preparations, and seek to spare loved ones needless hassle and heartache, by attending to the mundane details.
   In this age of instant information, extended family often learns a relative has died, via the Internet.

***

   On the evening (EST) of 11 February, 2012, the world received news that singer Whitney Houston had died. It was all over Facebook and other Internet sites. A lot of people took the loss personally. On the morning of 12 February, 2012, a 92-year-old woman died as I held her hand. I pressed the call light, the RN was summoned to pronounce, and I murmured, "Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord and let perpetual light shine upon her."
  Then a nurse aide came in, and together we cleaned the body. The office was notified and, my job finished, I took my leave. That death I took not just personally, but intimately. Barely had the words "She's dead" escaped my lips, than I was assigned a new client. [That new client/caregiver relationship was to last fifteen months.]
   My roommate noticed I was home early and, hearing why, asked if I was alright. I told her I was, then changed clothes and went to church, arriving in time to robe for choir. The rector bade me welcome, after several weeks' absence. I told her why I'd been able to make it to church, and she wanted to know if the lady was alone. Assuring the reverend of my presence at the deathbed, she clasped my hand and smiled. 
   As we sang the Gloria, I felt we were singing with my departed patient and all who behold the glory of God. 'Blessed are those who mourn, for one day they shall laugh.'

***

(2020)

   Rereading this entry from a distance of eight years, I can tell you I now have a deeper understanding of Death and am more familiar with Its wiles and whims. Mom entered that final embrace, in December of 2013. During calendar year 2019, fully a dozen persons of my acquaintance, left this plane of existence, including Dad.
   Approaching the end of my seventh decade, I occasionally wonder who will mourn my passing, when the time comes for me to depart this "vale of tears." Given personal and family history, I expect to ride Earth for several more laps around the sun which lights the solar system in which I dwell. The people who regularly receive letters from me, will be glad of that news.
   Yet this planet sustains so many humans, pushing toward eight billion, that people die virtually unnoticed all the time. Some may only be discovered after the fact.

   The first week of July 2015, was rather harried and I struggled to process and make sense of it all. I had made several trips back and forth to Ann Arbor; in addition, someone I had known virtually my entire life, was hospitalized with serious injuries. That led me to edit and re-post an old column, titled "My brother's keeper," from July 2012. 
   It seems to me all of the world's woes can, at some point, be traced to greed and looking out for "Number One" instead of each other.

   "In the course of time Cain brought an offering to the Lord from the fruit of the soil, while Abel …  brought one of the best firstlings of his flock. The Lord looked with favor on Abel… Cain greatly resented this and … said to his brother, ‘Let us go out into the field.’

   “When they were in the field, Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him. Then the Lord asked Cain, ‘Where is your brother Abel?’

   “He answered, ‘I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper’?" (Genesis 4: 3, 4, 5b, 8, 9 New American Bible)

   It is to be hoped no one would wantonly slay another, yet that very choice is made every day. Some will use the "I had no choice" excuse, but there is always a choice. Laws of what some refer to as "common decency" dictate we are indeed our brother’s keeper. There are now over seven billion people inhabiting the planet we call Earth: number of humans occupying planet surface has doubled in less than six decades. What or who determines an individual's right to live? How do we reconcile, keep our sanity, humanity?

***

   There is much discussion/debate regarding issue of health care and the reform thereof. I have not yet seen verbal interaction devolve into a knock-down, drag-out, which is probably just as well, as it would likely not be covered.

     A lot of the buzz I hear is people not wanting to be told who they can see, when, or how often. One friend wondered if death of Sen. Ted Kennedy would be used as a "guilt" card to get reform passed. [It took a long time afterward to get affordable care passed, so I would say not.]

    Folks are scared to death of "socialism," though as an ideal, it is probably how early Christians strove to live. "All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to everyone as he had need." (Acts 2: 44-45 New International Version)

    There are other Scriptures which, I believe, point us toward caring for one another's basic needs. Consider New Testament book, James 1:27 "Religion that is pure and undefiled before God and the Father is this: to care for orphans and widows in their affliction and to keep oneself unstained by the world." (New American Bible) Or James 2: 15-16 "Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, 'Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,' but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it?"

   Though health care reform is not a religious concern per se, a lot of Scripture and prayer would seem to lead us in direction of caring for the less fortunate.

   Once, during Evening Prayer, we used Suffrages A (page 122 Book of Common Prayer), which read, in part:

V. Let your way be known upon earth;

R. Your saving health among all nations.

V. Let not the needy, O LORD, be forgotten;

R. Nor the hope of the poor be taken away. 

   There are a lot of people who just *hope to God* they do not get sick or who do not go to a doctor because, even if they found out what was wrong, they couldn't afford to do anything about it. I have said, only half jokingly, "Garlic is my antibiotic of choice and hugs are preventive medicine." [As of May 2014, am grateful beneficiary of Affordable Care Act, and am able to get needed medicine to control blood pressure.] But we need more.

   Though some denounce "survival of the fittest" as a qualifier, that premise governed existence of species for millennia. Individuals who were not physically capable of supporting themselves and had no one to provide their needs, died. We now have means of keeping such creatures, human and nonhuman, alive - but at what cost? For many peoples, separating oneself from one's community when weak and dying is viewed as *taking one for the team.*
   With institution of social programs to aid the less fortunate, some people feel they can dictate who is deserving of help. People are reluctant to pull the plug or deny costly services to helpless newborns, afraid to be labeled "baby killers." The stigma applies less stringently to elderly persons still, at least as individuals, we are loathe to admit a desire to save money by denying care to someone who will never be able to repay.
   There have been models of generosity through the ages: Buddha; St. Francis of Assisi; Jesus; Mother Teresa; Dorothy Day; who met need where they saw it - without a lengthy interrogation to determine if the victim were "deserving."
   Some wonder why God allows suffering, while maintaining there is sufficient wealth to feed and care for all the world's inhabitants. Therein, I believe, lies the answer. Creator gave us souls and free will and probably has hopes that we will use our gifts wisely.
   What, then, constitutes wisdom? Do we make our own comfort a top priority and give scant concern to welfare of others? If one is a member of the fortunate elite, does one then have an obligation to share one's good fortune? I am not defining "elite" as the top one or two percent who control obscene sums of wealth, consuming disproportionate amounts of planet's resources. I speak of anyone who has access to clean water, adequate food, and a place to sleep, sheltered from the elements.
   As long as we callously turn our backs on those less fortunate than ourselves, we are truly a "lower life form." If we are truly evolved, a higher life form, everyone should be noticed.

   "Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved Mankind; And therefore never send for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” (John Donne)
   Tragedies, such as school shootings and weather disasters rightfully tug at heartstrings. Even celebrity deaths bring people together in grief. We need to consider that we are not alone on this planet or in this universe.
   How hard it is sometimes to lay arrogance aside, especially when one feels it is one's only suit of clothing and does not wish to appear before the world naked and vulnerable.
   In the wake of tragedy, and there is a new one almost daily, heroes emerge.  Russell King Jr., a victim of the shooting in Chardon, Ohio was an organ donor. His family said, "...his heart still beats." (Note: This piece was originally composed in 2011. In the aftermath of the Aurora, CO carnage, 19 July, 2012, I hope there will be a donor among the victims who will save other lives.)
   Even more than I hope my heart continues to beat for a long time, I pray each beat will be lived in love and grace. When it beats no more, I hope your life is better for having known me.

From the steppes of Russia

Many years ago, I edited several installments from a science teacher, into a piece for a small, independently owned, Texas newspaper. As the narrator was a county resident, he was accorded a goodly number of column inches; within reason. The task called for a strategy of WMD. No, not Weapons of Mass Destruction but Words Mostly Deleted. [Editorial humor, don't ya know?] Given location, I surmised the "Catholic" church visited did not belong to Roman Rite; rather, it was likely Russian Orthodox.

***

 Russia: Land of the Czars

Getting there
   Former presidential candidate Sarah Palin may have been able to see Russia from her back porch, but I had a more intimate perspective. Rather than being "on the outside, looking in" my son Boone and I were on the inside, looking around. In the following paragraphs, I shall try to take you along on our journey, which began quite some time ago.
   After a presentation for "Operation Chemistry" at the 1998 National Science Teachers Association (NSTA) national conference held in Boston, two scientists from Los Alamos National Laboratory approached me. They invited me to join the Critical Issues Forum (CIF) program, developed as an international research program for high school students primarily from USA and Russia, but also from other countries. The program is committed to worldwide non-proliferation of WMD, Weapons of  Mass Destruction. After years spent developing this program, colleagues around the world became comfortable enough within the group to invite one another for home visits. When a friend emailed me from one of the "closed cities" and asked me to come for a visit, I recognized it for what it was.
   So difficult were the travel papers to fill out, we had to have special help. But it has been said a journey of a thousand miles, begins with the first step. We stepped on to a plane in San Antonio, Texas and stepped off at Sheremetyevo-2 (SVO) International Airport, into another time zone, another country, another world.
   One thing I must point out, foreign countries smell different. Not necessarily "bad:" just different. Sometimes a sense of paranoia overcomes you; mainly from knowing you can't just whip out your cellphone and call somebody from home to come and get you. I couldn't help thinking of Daniel in the lion's den.
   We were met by somebody who took us to Sheremetyevo-1, the Moscow airport, which handles domestic flights. Following a ten hour layover, we hopped a plane to Krasnoyarsk City. The last leg was a two-hour drive to the closed city of Zelenogorsk. This is the site of a secure facility, closed to tourists. But Boone and I had come as invited instructors, which accorded us certain privileges. Upon our arrival, many of the locals told us we were the first Americans known to have visited their city  where tourists are "persona no grata." There may have been no other way to visit one of the "closed" cities in Russia; my specialized background helped, as I could provide content my Russian friends were seeking.

"Special" education
   Making introductions: Coqva savut? (What's your name?) Minya savut Clabe. (My name is Clabe.) There is a difference between a "gymnasium" and a regular Russian "high school." At the latter, students learn two languages: their native Russian and either English or German. A "gymnasium" is a step above; in addition to the basic curriculum, students take on the challenge of extra language classes, which meet daily.
   Many schools in Russia experience difficulties with drugs, alcohol, and gangs, as do schools in the States. They seem, however, to have found a way to deal with social apathy: they do nor support a welfare state. Young people are encouraged to do well school and become productive members of society. The approach is Biblical: if you don't work, you don't eat. (This hardly bodes well for individuals with either learning disabilities or physical handicaps. - editor's note)
   In one 'special' school, a Major escorted us to a secluded place, where he displayed an arsenal that sent shivers up and down my spine: an Ak-47, grenades, a bazooka, rifle, shotgun, handgun, gas masks and so forth. You know, the usual school kit. This was one of those sensitive moments it seemed in our best interests to not ask too many questions, though I did wonder if this were some kind of ROTC (reserve officers' training corps) program? Just let me say they play "Sink the battleship" on a grand scale, out in the forest.
   After a particularly rough school day, the principal may call a meeting at the bana (sauna), where the vodka flows freely. There is also smoked cheese, lox, fresh fruits and vegetables, and comestibles unknown to me. Vodka loosens the tongue and people speak freely; but what is heard or seen in the bana, stays in the bana. When the vodka runs out, the meeting is adjourned. It may be 4:00 A.M. when the meeting ends but morning calisthenics always commence promptly at eight o'clock. Another school day, another ruble.

Borscht Belt cuisine: "soshlik," it's what's for dinner
   Having years of experience, I like to eat.Many of the foods we were served were a bit bland for our tastes: Russian moms don't use the spices we're used to. Any table top in the United States is likely to have garlic salt, season salt, ketchup, Tabasco, picante and more. In Russia we hardly saw more than salt and pepper - and sometimes we had to ask for those.
   Food is plentiful in the Siberian areas we visited but very expensive; often too costly for those on a meager income. Some things are the same all over: I recalled I had once asked about hunting and the Major told me, "Yes, there is hunting in Russia. If you have the money and can clear the paperwork, you can buy a hunting license. Sadly, much game has been poached, so hunting is no longer a realistic possibility."
   At breakfast, Boone and I were less than enthusiastic as we stared at bowls of glop. It was porridge but even the cooks couldn't say what kind. Sometimes it was runny, other times, thick. Boone avoided it like the plague. One time we had "pizza." Boone and I both watched as it came out of the oven. As in Japan, tomato sauce is not used on Russian pizza. Now, try not to gag: they use mayonnaise. Plus, they really like onions ... and fresh, unpasteurized goat cheese. But one thing to remember when you are with a host family: you never want to insult the cook, who is usually the momma. Nope, bad idea. So we did the best we could, smiled politely and said "thank you" to the momma. Swallow; nothing like it. Please may I have some water?
   Texas roadside barbecue offers some fine eating. In Russia, you might find roadside "soshlik." This is made from chicken or pork, marinated in something I never could identify, cooked over a fire in an open metal cooker. It is served on a birch branch, rather like shish-kabobs. I'd be willing to eat it again, given the chance.

Family life
   The cars
   Russian vehicles are smaller than most one would find in the Western world. Folks could not grasp the concept of a family truck. Describe a Ford F-150 and, in general, they had no idea what you were talking about. Petrol is expensive and, as in the States, comes in grades. Let's begin with some basic conversions. One gallon is equal to 3.78 liters, one liter costs 29 rubles. So, 3.78 x 29 = 109.62 rubles; 109.62, divided by 30 (rubles to the dollar) and you are paying $3.654 per gallon of gas. This is about a dollar higher than what we paid in Brady before we left. I will add that we also had to pay an exorbitant exchange rate to convert our currency. as usual, we reserve the right to complain.

Parents are the same, the world over
   Life in Russia is like life in the U.S. - kind of. The people work, marry, raise kids, and worry about paying their bills. Parents get sick and still go to work; it's different if a child gets sick. But people usually do not go to the doctor until there is no other choice. Instead, they "self-medicate." Sound familiar? The point is, we can relate; people are people and we need to try to get along.

*****

On our way home
   Many think the Church is dead in Russia: prior to 1991, it existed mainly underground but experienced a rebirth in 1993. With an escort, I visited a beautiful Catholic church and gave the preacher three New Testaments. The Brady camp of Gideons International provided two cases of New Testaments, which were gone in a flash.
   I had been charged with teaching at a top level school which prepared future political leaders. now, after many weeks, it was time to say Da Svidaniya to our Russian friends and return to the United States. The day before we were to leave, we learned no one was available to escort us through the airport. This would have been an excellent time to panic, save for the realization that God is in charge.
   Next morning, around 2:30, one of the teachers picked us up, drove us to the airport and hugged us goodbye. At the gate, we studied our instructions, mostly in Russian, and continued to pray. Minutes before boarding, we heard English spoken for the first time in several weeks. I approached a group of oil field workers, who were being rotated back to the States, after their time with a Caspian Sea oil firm. The leader told me he'd been away from home four months and had really missed his Bible study group. I'd been keeping a New Testament to read on the trip home but gave it to him; he thanked me.
   I'm sure the trip back was just as long as the trip over but knowing I was coming home, made it go more quickly. I'm no John Denver, but as I stepped off the plane, my heart sang, "Gee it's good to be back home again."

JADE and GABRIEL

   Jade delved into her psyche in pursuit of a memory embedded long ago. As is the case with those who have grown older, the memories closest to the surface were those of her childhood: there was five-year-old Jade in a rowboat with Grampa Chaffee and Papa and they were catching bluegill and sunfish. Jade remembers the smell of the fish and the fact that she caught the greatest number that evening. She enjoys the nearly imperceptible rocking of the boat and feels the worms wriggle in her fingers as she baits her own hook. The fish would be cleaned yet that night and refrigerated. The next day they'd be dipped in cornmeal and Grampa would fry them out in the back yard, using his camp stove and they'd be so crispy and delicious. Jade savored the flavors of her youth for a moment.

   She did not plummet like a rock sinking to the bottom of the lake; her descent was gradual, and even on the way down, the thought occurred to her, "this must be the way a would-be fossil felt as it found its place in the La Brea tar pits:" gravity pulling one's weight against the resistance of the dark mass. But this was not the time for such fanciful thoughts: Jade was a woman on a mission, searching for the key to secure a friend's release.

   Gabriel was more than a friend - he had come into her life at a crucial time and had eased her transition from middle age to what was termed, "near elderly." How many times had Gabriel told Jade that she didn't need him, that she had a strength that came from within? Ah, dear Gabe; couldn't he see that need was subjective, a matter of perception? Jade had always known that her life, i.e. the accumulation of days, weeks and years, would continue in the absence of her lover, but it would be an existence of diminished capacity.

   Time enough later for these extraneous thoughts: she must find that key. Although she did not let her age define her, Jade realized that she had reached the point in life where memories did not come to her so much as she came to them. Jade and a chronologically distant memory drifted within reach of each other: she was a child of four and it was winter. Mom had built a snowman and painted a face in watercolors. It was beautiful, as were all of her mother's creations. But of course, Nona Chaffee was a gifted artist and everything that came from her was imbued with grace and beauty, including her children. Jade and her siblings were all creative; draftsmen, painters, builders and performing artists.

   She glimpsed yet another remnant of the past: climbing the tree in the front yard of Grandma's house and picking apples. A little further away, this from the years of early adulthood, there was a quilt which everyone in the family had worked on; it was to be presented to Jade's grandparents on the occasion of their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Soon Jade would be allowed to sink into her reverie and not re-surface, but right now, Gabe needed her words one last time; so she let those memories which were currently irrelevant drift away.

   Many years before, when Jade was describing to Gabriel the effects, both positive and negative, of her sister's cancer treatment, he had interjected, "God, I hope you're there when I die!" and so, of course, she'd told him she would be. Now the time had come: too soon for her but years past what Gabe had presumed would be check-out time from the motel of life. Jade spun words much the way a spider spins a web but her words were not meant to ensnare prey; merely to create a delicate piece of work with transient beauty. Gabriel had been entranced by Jade's web and let himself be transported whither-so-ever her words carried him. Now she would spin a web of intricate detail, every word breaking her heart, because it would take her beloved Gabriel away from her.

   Jade's search for that elusive key continued and, at last, there it was: as with the best of memories, it was multi-faceted, involving all her senses. Once again, Jade breathed in the scent of Gabriel's cologne and her pulse quickened. The air surrounding her was gently stirred by a ceiling fan. Jade's power of speech was involved in absentia: Gabe had asked her to 'just be quiet and let him have his moment,' so Jade had acquiesced and found herself immersed in a most exquisite state of euphoria as beautiful music lifted her out of herself. Gabriel had described it as music "to live to or die to ... to look into a woman's eyes ... " and Jade told this man she loved that perhaps he could die looking into a woman's eyes. Jade knew, even as the words came from her mouth, that she was foretelling their future. Jade returned his gaze and was nearly overwhelmed by what she saw: it was a look that went beyond sadness to world-weariness; there was such a willingness to just let it all go. So Jade stored that memory with a few others that had been labelled, "we will not speak of this again."

   The time had now come to speak; Jade would use her command of words to evoke a memory for him and release her beloved Gabriel into the arms of another lover - Death; that winsome beauty whose embrace would transport him to the place he so longed to be. Jade couldn't quite believe how willing she was to let Gabe go, but she knew that she was willing because she loved him so very much and she'd had him far longer than she'd ever dared to dream. Now it was time to bid him adieu and send him toward his final destination, where he would be reunited with the men in his family. After years of separation, Gabriel would rejoin the stalwart individuals who had shaped his life, moulded his character, and made him the wonderful man he was, (though he never could see it).

   Jade composed herself, gathering the strength that Gabriel had always known lay within her. She summoned all the words at her command and looked deeply into Gabriel's eyes, holding his gaze. Now Jade began to speak: her voice soft, slow and deliberate. It invited him to let his spirit drift free of his weary, ruined body; to travel with her to a memory long since forgotten. Jade felt that by letting Gabriel lose himself in her eyes, being the portal through which he passed from this world to the next, that perhaps a whisper of his soul would remain bonded to hers - a tracking device, if you will: so that she could find him in the mists of eternity and be joined to him again.

   Jade would have accompanied Gabe on this journey but for her promise to deliver his eulogy. She had written most of it years before, shaping the words, turning her phrases as an artisan turns wood on a lathe. She would craft something beautiful to pay fitting tribute to Gabriel, who was the other half of her, the man she had been destined to love even before she knew him.

   Finally, when she had fulfilled her promises, Jade could immerse herself in her memories. Once again she would meet Gabriel, and share eternity with him as she knew she was meant to do. On the temporal plane, where she left her body, her breathing would become slower and softer, until that last breath was taken, the beating of her heart would come to a standstill, the green eyes glaze over. Her existence on Earth cease; then her life would begin.