Monday, December 10, 2007
Lunch
I ran into Gary Dessinger today. We had lunch at Bon Secours Hospital, were I work. Gary is a Chemistry teacher at Finney High School. He was my chemistry teacher when I went there. He was one of my mentors and recipient of the DO-IT! Board.
The DO-IT! Board was a piece of cardboard that Mike Sivak, my locker partner, and I had mounted to the inside door of our locker. On this board we had written anything that came to mind. It was a recording of the thoughts and feelings of two seventeen year old kids. For instance it had insightful prose like:
'Cindy S Chews Gum Like A Cow!'
It was the graffiti of our minds. It was the angst of being seventeen and not knowing what life had to offer. It was the statement of our commitment to live life to its fullest. We kept it under lock and key behind the safety of our locker door. Like most good secrets, however, there were security leaks. There were break-in attempts to find out what secrets were recorded on the DO-IT! Board.
One morning while exchanging books between classes, a pair of hands grabbed the locker door from the outside. With my lightning fast reflexes I dropped my books and grabbed my side of the door. It was Dessinger. He wanted the DO-IT! Board. We battled back and forth. When he tried to reach around to grab the prize, I could pull the door my way, in the process threatening his fingers with extreme pain and perhaps limiting his ability to hold chalk. We were at an impasse until Sivak came to the rescue.
He gave one final push my way, closing the locker door, thereby keeping the DO-IT! Board a secret. We had one-upped our mentor. The Christmas after graduation, Sivak and I paid him a visit and presented the DO-IT! Board to him as a Christmas present. This little gray-haired man who sat before me at lunch, who was at the hospital to visit another teacher, Victoria Johnides.
Victoria Johnides was a science teacher. She was a big, strong Greek woman who held after-school classes for students like me who seemed to ask too many questions. We were always questioning why things were the way they were and she seemed to enjoy providing explanations from the scientific point of view.
Here she was… dying of cancer.
We did not cover that subject in class. At the time it did not seen pertinent to ask those kinds of questions.
'Mrs. Johnides, in 1994, when you are dying of cancer will any of these
experiments seem as spectacular or wondrous as they do now? When our paths cross
again in 28 years, what words should I say to you that will have meaning?'
These are the things that we do not ask of people. Oh we say things inspired by a certain bravado like, 'If I ever get like that, shoot me, just shoot me.' However when push comes to shove, do we really mean it? Do we really want to die?
It comes back to a very basic question, 'If I do not wish to die, then why am I here?'
Why am I HERE? I don't understand why I am where I am. I say this because I have been blessed with having had many good teachers, friends and mentors they were. I have met many good people who have touched my life so deeply only to see them pass away.
They come here to Bon Secours Hospital and too often I am witness to their final days. And never, ever is there the least echo of the wisdom that came from their lips or the guidance that they provided except the memories that are replayed so quickly through my mind as they pass.
I suppose that this is the real crux of my frustration. Has my life been manipulated so that I am here, now, for them? Am I the documenter of their deeds?
I don't understand why I am here.
In July of 1992, Ernie Stengel was admitted here. I remember this distinctly because I was sitting at my desk working on a 'very important problem' when the phone rang.
It was Ernie.
'George, I'm in room 302. I'm afraid I'm not doing too well. My kidney's aren't working.'
He sounded weak and tired. I ran up the stairs from the basement. As I walked into room 302, I noticed how Ernie had gained weight. He looked puffy. I also noticed how he had 'that' color. It was the pale gray of cancer. I no longer had a very important problem to deal with.
'They've got me in here for tests, George. In February I started to have a lot of lower Back pain. So he sent me to Physical Therapy and that didn't do a God damn thing. Then he sent me to a Chiropractor. It's not good. He wouldn't listen to me. I kept telling him how shitty I was feeling. Then I couldn't piss. So I went back to him again. God damn it!
It's not good.'
He grins now.
'And you know the worst thing about it is, I haven't wanted to get laid lately. You know there's a problem when Stengel loses his interest in broads.'
We laughed. It was one of the few times over the next six weeks that we laughed. There was a week of tests. There was the surgery to remove the tumor that was blocking his ureters. Then there was the chemo. Throughout it all, the man who had taught my Great Books class in the 12th grade; who helped me to grab life, to appreciate the serendipity of it all, weakened slowly and died.
We had the chance to reminisce. He used to call me on Saturday mornings to say that he would stop by with some other students and we were going to go off on some adventure. The other students were always girls. The adventure was always some stream of consciousness type of thing. Maybe we would venture off to Toledo to the art museum, or to the DIA, or go go-cart racing. Once he got a hold of me at Wayne State when I was a student there, we went putt-putt golfing. It was all very innocent.
He was in love with one of the girls. Now 24 years later he asked me if I ever ran into her. As we talked about her he began to cry and I realized that now, so close to death, he still loved her. For him, at that moment, it was a pain worse then cancer.
During his last few weeks he became more listless, and weaker. For a day or two before he started to seizure, he would only answer me in monosyllabic phrases. We were like two misplaced characters out of a Tolstoy novel, he was Ivan Ilyich and I was his Gerasim; covering him up, encouraging him to eat, and making sure that he did his breathing exercises.
I was stunned upon entering his room one day. His side rails on his bed were padded, he was restrained with a vest Posey... and seizuring. Ernie was struggling with the life force itself as it slowly left his body. He wouldn't let go. I began to sob. Here was the man who read my autobiography to the entire Great Books class because it somehow, naively, touched him.
At the time we were reading 'Look Homeward, Angel' by Thomas Wolfe.
'You're Eugene (the main character), George. Damn it, you're one honest son of a bitch.'
He was impressed, I was mortified. Because up to this point I saw him as a menacing, unapproachable Red Devil.
As all of this was going through my mind, I began to sob uncontrollably. His death was imminent.
The sun was setting over the roof of the building and was sending a solid shaft of light into Ernie's room. I struggled to push his bed over to the window so he could see the sun set one last time.
'Look at the sun Ernie. Look at the sun,' I said.
The tears were streaming down my face. Finally the bed was up against the window. Sunlight bathed his body and reduced his pupils to tiny black dots.
Ernie's oncologist came in, all tanned and healthy looking. He could see I was upset and began to make references to how he was making Ernie as comfortable as possible. He said he had to be careful because of the Kevorkian publicity. I was immediately unimpressed with this guy, in fact I disliked him the more he spoke. Then as an act of consolation he said that this type of death didn't have to happen.
'How old are you?' 'You know in a couple of years you should start getting rectal exams.'
I felt like I had just received one. This was the guy who sent Ernie to physical therapy. I was so angry.
I started to laugh.
The absurdity of this man and his effect on Ernie's life hit me like a baseball bat. If I didn't laugh I think I would have hit the man with his absurdity.
Ernie died two days later.
Witnessing death has never really bothered me. It really hasn't. By the time we are at that point, all we are left with is our humanity. All the rest is window dressing. In a hospital, you usually don’t get to know the person that lay before you very well, and the window dressing has all been stripped away.
I am disturbed when I am touched so deeply by someone only to have them go. I am disturbed and overwhelmed by a reverent sort of wonder at how life can be so vital and fragile and powerful and absurd and persistent and brief… all at once.
So now the cycle repeats itself. Victoria Johnides is lying in her bed. She has been in and out of isolation. Her condition gradually worsens but has periods of relative comfort and occasionally even gets a little rest.
When I had the opportunity, I told her nurses at lunch about the person, that the patient in 221B was a science teacher who once taught with passion and dignity, who took the school on ski trips, and who once broke up a fight between Henry Lopez and me in the 9th grade.
--The End --
The DO-IT! Board was a piece of cardboard that Mike Sivak, my locker partner, and I had mounted to the inside door of our locker. On this board we had written anything that came to mind. It was a recording of the thoughts and feelings of two seventeen year old kids. For instance it had insightful prose like:
'Cindy S Chews Gum Like A Cow!'
It was the graffiti of our minds. It was the angst of being seventeen and not knowing what life had to offer. It was the statement of our commitment to live life to its fullest. We kept it under lock and key behind the safety of our locker door. Like most good secrets, however, there were security leaks. There were break-in attempts to find out what secrets were recorded on the DO-IT! Board.
One morning while exchanging books between classes, a pair of hands grabbed the locker door from the outside. With my lightning fast reflexes I dropped my books and grabbed my side of the door. It was Dessinger. He wanted the DO-IT! Board. We battled back and forth. When he tried to reach around to grab the prize, I could pull the door my way, in the process threatening his fingers with extreme pain and perhaps limiting his ability to hold chalk. We were at an impasse until Sivak came to the rescue.
He gave one final push my way, closing the locker door, thereby keeping the DO-IT! Board a secret. We had one-upped our mentor. The Christmas after graduation, Sivak and I paid him a visit and presented the DO-IT! Board to him as a Christmas present. This little gray-haired man who sat before me at lunch, who was at the hospital to visit another teacher, Victoria Johnides.
Victoria Johnides was a science teacher. She was a big, strong Greek woman who held after-school classes for students like me who seemed to ask too many questions. We were always questioning why things were the way they were and she seemed to enjoy providing explanations from the scientific point of view.
Here she was… dying of cancer.
We did not cover that subject in class. At the time it did not seen pertinent to ask those kinds of questions.
'Mrs. Johnides, in 1994, when you are dying of cancer will any of these
experiments seem as spectacular or wondrous as they do now? When our paths cross
again in 28 years, what words should I say to you that will have meaning?'
These are the things that we do not ask of people. Oh we say things inspired by a certain bravado like, 'If I ever get like that, shoot me, just shoot me.' However when push comes to shove, do we really mean it? Do we really want to die?
It comes back to a very basic question, 'If I do not wish to die, then why am I here?'
Why am I HERE? I don't understand why I am where I am. I say this because I have been blessed with having had many good teachers, friends and mentors they were. I have met many good people who have touched my life so deeply only to see them pass away.
They come here to Bon Secours Hospital and too often I am witness to their final days. And never, ever is there the least echo of the wisdom that came from their lips or the guidance that they provided except the memories that are replayed so quickly through my mind as they pass.
I suppose that this is the real crux of my frustration. Has my life been manipulated so that I am here, now, for them? Am I the documenter of their deeds?
I don't understand why I am here.
In July of 1992, Ernie Stengel was admitted here. I remember this distinctly because I was sitting at my desk working on a 'very important problem' when the phone rang.
It was Ernie.
'George, I'm in room 302. I'm afraid I'm not doing too well. My kidney's aren't working.'
He sounded weak and tired. I ran up the stairs from the basement. As I walked into room 302, I noticed how Ernie had gained weight. He looked puffy. I also noticed how he had 'that' color. It was the pale gray of cancer. I no longer had a very important problem to deal with.
'They've got me in here for tests, George. In February I started to have a lot of lower Back pain. So he sent me to Physical Therapy and that didn't do a God damn thing. Then he sent me to a Chiropractor. It's not good. He wouldn't listen to me. I kept telling him how shitty I was feeling. Then I couldn't piss. So I went back to him again. God damn it!
It's not good.'
He grins now.
'And you know the worst thing about it is, I haven't wanted to get laid lately. You know there's a problem when Stengel loses his interest in broads.'
We laughed. It was one of the few times over the next six weeks that we laughed. There was a week of tests. There was the surgery to remove the tumor that was blocking his ureters. Then there was the chemo. Throughout it all, the man who had taught my Great Books class in the 12th grade; who helped me to grab life, to appreciate the serendipity of it all, weakened slowly and died.
We had the chance to reminisce. He used to call me on Saturday mornings to say that he would stop by with some other students and we were going to go off on some adventure. The other students were always girls. The adventure was always some stream of consciousness type of thing. Maybe we would venture off to Toledo to the art museum, or to the DIA, or go go-cart racing. Once he got a hold of me at Wayne State when I was a student there, we went putt-putt golfing. It was all very innocent.
He was in love with one of the girls. Now 24 years later he asked me if I ever ran into her. As we talked about her he began to cry and I realized that now, so close to death, he still loved her. For him, at that moment, it was a pain worse then cancer.
During his last few weeks he became more listless, and weaker. For a day or two before he started to seizure, he would only answer me in monosyllabic phrases. We were like two misplaced characters out of a Tolstoy novel, he was Ivan Ilyich and I was his Gerasim; covering him up, encouraging him to eat, and making sure that he did his breathing exercises.
I was stunned upon entering his room one day. His side rails on his bed were padded, he was restrained with a vest Posey... and seizuring. Ernie was struggling with the life force itself as it slowly left his body. He wouldn't let go. I began to sob. Here was the man who read my autobiography to the entire Great Books class because it somehow, naively, touched him.
At the time we were reading 'Look Homeward, Angel' by Thomas Wolfe.
'You're Eugene (the main character), George. Damn it, you're one honest son of a bitch.'
He was impressed, I was mortified. Because up to this point I saw him as a menacing, unapproachable Red Devil.
As all of this was going through my mind, I began to sob uncontrollably. His death was imminent.
The sun was setting over the roof of the building and was sending a solid shaft of light into Ernie's room. I struggled to push his bed over to the window so he could see the sun set one last time.
'Look at the sun Ernie. Look at the sun,' I said.
The tears were streaming down my face. Finally the bed was up against the window. Sunlight bathed his body and reduced his pupils to tiny black dots.
Ernie's oncologist came in, all tanned and healthy looking. He could see I was upset and began to make references to how he was making Ernie as comfortable as possible. He said he had to be careful because of the Kevorkian publicity. I was immediately unimpressed with this guy, in fact I disliked him the more he spoke. Then as an act of consolation he said that this type of death didn't have to happen.
'How old are you?' 'You know in a couple of years you should start getting rectal exams.'
I felt like I had just received one. This was the guy who sent Ernie to physical therapy. I was so angry.
I started to laugh.
The absurdity of this man and his effect on Ernie's life hit me like a baseball bat. If I didn't laugh I think I would have hit the man with his absurdity.
Ernie died two days later.
Witnessing death has never really bothered me. It really hasn't. By the time we are at that point, all we are left with is our humanity. All the rest is window dressing. In a hospital, you usually don’t get to know the person that lay before you very well, and the window dressing has all been stripped away.
I am disturbed when I am touched so deeply by someone only to have them go. I am disturbed and overwhelmed by a reverent sort of wonder at how life can be so vital and fragile and powerful and absurd and persistent and brief… all at once.
So now the cycle repeats itself. Victoria Johnides is lying in her bed. She has been in and out of isolation. Her condition gradually worsens but has periods of relative comfort and occasionally even gets a little rest.
When I had the opportunity, I told her nurses at lunch about the person, that the patient in 221B was a science teacher who once taught with passion and dignity, who took the school on ski trips, and who once broke up a fight between Henry Lopez and me in the 9th grade.
--The End --
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