The Death Card!
Death is a mystery which the living cannot describe. There is reams of information about how the body ceases to function and death is pronounced for the onlookers and medical observers. Despite the details from those who almost died and then were resuscitated who all claimed to have seen a white light, nobody has a clue.
A man I have known off and on for three decades, more off then on, seems to have been dealt a death card. He is a journalist and Author of two books as well, and he battled with a ferocious cancer on his spine a decade ago and won. A month ago I visited him in his home. as I had heard his wife was now in long term care. He had old issues with mobility but he did a good job with a cane. He was also wearing a crazy Hawaiian shirt in the middle of a freezing February in Toronto. His mind was alert in his early seventies and he still banged away his weekly column for a newspaper and discussed the next book he was planning.
We talked non-stop. With twinkling eyes he lampooned his enemies and then shared some fascinating details of French relatives. I could see the outline of a memoir and told him so, but he jeered at this.
“I don’t want to write about myself. I hate that.” he tossed the idea away.
“Lets just sit and gossip, that’s such fun” he continued but I saw a glint of his unchecked Agent Provocateur spirit.
I steered the conversation away from people to ideas. He knew I wasn’t going to play his game and he conceded gracefully. It was apparent he missed his wife but she had fallen and broken many things in her body and he could not take care of her. He did however walk to see her everyday. The walk itself kept him fit. He was ordering his cooked meals for the entire week and satisfied with the woman who provided them. It was a life which he was managing. He relied on his daughter who worked as a television reporter.
“She is my manager and in charge of everything. I have even put my house in her name.”
The only change was that he no longer drove a car. and had to make arrangements for his transportation.
“You are my good deed for this season. Its part of my self improvement project. I intend to stay in touch.” I made the confession.
“Yes, but you have blocked me on twitter,” he said petulantly.
“You misbehaved. Put 500 of your followers on my time line. Rotten politics and it took me days to delete and block them. I also informed you.”
“Well i thought you would like the attention that is purpose of Social media.” he said.
“No I am very particular, ” I stayed firm.
“All right ,” he had that same glint but seemed apologetic.
“Ok. I shall remove the block . Read my substack i have just done a rant which may appeal to you. ” I dropped my guard.
He loved my post and of course put it on his twitter feed and boom the same thing repeated itself.
I blocked him again and deleted and blocked his tedious followers.
“It is a permanent block. You cannot be trusted,” I telephoned him furiously.
“Well I shall block you as well “ it was a silly phone tiff.
I did not have the heart to tell him i did not care for his political stances and it was no loss for me.
Then he called me and complained about not feeling well and his doctor had ignored him. He had a biopsy done. No results as yet. He did not like his doctor. I jumped in and hunted for a new GP for him. Relayed the contact information. A sense of foreboding consumed me. He was in the information business but he was giving me sketchy details.
A few days later on a chilly but sunny Sunday afternoon I landed up at his home and told him I was going to take him for a drive and share a favourite hideout with him. He wiggled into a parka and walked down his front step and eased himself into the passenger seat. He noted the city streets he had not seen for a while and seemed pleased and alert. When we reached the Filtration Plant on Queen East he was enchanted by the expanse of water. He insisted on getting out of the car and standing outside and told me he could see why I was drawn to this unusual spot. I think he had forgotten about his ailment. I was happy that for a short interlude I had pleased him.
Then the axe fell and he wound up in hospital. I called him daily. Daignosis that the Cancer had returned and spread through his stomach. There would be tests but the death card had been casually slipped into his hand. Word was spread by his daughter through a Whatsap Group and people came to visit him at the hospital .
“They are busy writing my obituary,” he cackled on the phone.
“ I have been told that an intervention could do more damage “ he sounded weary.
I was filled with a dread. How could one play this game with him I wondered but I kept my conversations brief and playful.
As he was shuttled back and forth for tests the death card had been positioned in his hand firmly.
“Nothing is going to get better. It could be a question of time now,” he said on the telephone.
“Don’t be silly. You have no idea how much your body will fight this new invasion.” I had actually ticked him off.
“ Well the battle is a given, one tries till the end”, he said heroically.
A mist of rage coursed through my body, Why had a cure not been found? How would he continue to be normal with the elephant in the room. His loving loyal wife imprisoned in a long term care facility. He had told me that he wanted to have ‘samosas’ delivered to her. He was also considering having a ground floor extension added to the house so he could bring her back. She was the living part of him even though they no longer slept in the same home.
He had dealt with this major deprivation in his life with good cheer. If he shed tears over this he did not show them to us the outsiders who came in the guise of friendship collectors of news and writers of obituaries. I concealed my loathing for all of them. as I felt their behaviour was more voyeuristic than helpful. I just made plans about how I could find moments for him which would cheer him up and make him laugh.
The all of a sudden he picked up strength. Paraded around on his hospital floor using a walker with yet another vivid coloured shirt draped over the gown. Then he sang a melancholy song with a visitor and mounted that on his twitter feed. He could still carry a tune. It was pronounced that he would be given chemo therapy to halt the advanced.
He left the hospital to join his wife at the Long Term Care facility. Lovely family pics emerged and he smiled broadly. He would be taken weekly to the hospital for outpatient chemo and return back to the long term care home to his wife’s fragile ministrations.
The first session of outpatient chemo knocked the stuffing out of him. Within two days he was back in the hospital. That elusive death card was the real Damocles sword hanging over his head. He was too weak and malnourished to proceed. In that bizarre contradiction of being strong enough to get a lethal treatment to kill the cancer only to have the treatment ravage you? Yet when the Death Card which doctors are obliged to hand out suddenly becomes the Joker with the help of unassailable Will then its a wild ride- much like the Roller Coaster which scares you to death but brings you back to ground safely.
Yesterday i sent him a picture of my first pot of pansies with a message.
“Both the Pansies and you are hardy Ontario lads. I expect you both to mount a spirited defence against Seasonal vagaries.”
In the early hours of the morning he texted back from his hospital bed.
“The pansies look so intoxicating. They should be used as a summer romance idea.” .