The most important tool . . . to help me make the big choices in life

The subject of death may be uncomfortable or difficult for some. And yet, we are all going to die . . . some time. . . somehow. Here’s a quote from Steve Jobs.

“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure — these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.” — Steve Jobs

Note from Marlene: Writing. . . letting others read your writing . . . can make you feel vulnerable, afraid and weak in the knees. And yet, when we pay attention to our desire to write and when we write. . . it’s such a satisfying feeling. So, I say, let go of your fears. . . be brave. . . write and share your writing. Go for it and Just Write.

Ke11y

September 2, 2014

Quote: The subject of death may be uncomfortable or difficult for some. And yet, we are all going to die . . . some time. . . somehow. End Quote.

Flying Lessons.

It happened like this: I had turned my attention to the TV for just a moment, the last in the series of Gray’s Anatomy was showing. My wife had earlier asked me to take care of my mother-in-law, while she attended a yoga class. Okay, so the truth is my mother-in-law and I do not get along perfectly…at all in fact…ever…in forty two years!

Forty-two years hearing how I was never going to be good enough for her precious daughter. I’d ordered in a Greek meal, and when it came, served it up to her while she sat in the armchair, putting a cushion behind her back, and sticking a fork in her feeble, vein tracked, cobwebbed hand. I even put a blanket over her knees after she complained she was cold. Was she grateful? No, she was not.

Anyway, I’m trying to watch my TV show, but she is scraping her fork across the dinner plate, separating bits of food. This way, then that, then across the other side, then this side…

“Cybil, it’s just lamb, nothing bad, give it a try. Be adventurous; go on, you’ll love it.”

Cybil pays me the same kind of attention I’ve gotten used to, none, and picks and prods and pushes the food about the plate.

“Donna’s kebab, you said?”

“Not Donna, as in the girl’s name. Doner kebab… as in Greek!”

I sighed, shook my head, and woofed down another large chunk of meat.

“Well, all I can say is, it may be sold as lamb, but then again it may not actually be lamb.” She replied, pushing the food with her fork suspiciously.

“Look, if you’re not hungry… then…”

“I’m not this hungry!” She snapped, holding up to eye level something squirmy, and it hung there from her fork.

“Then give it over to me, Cybil. I’m starving. Jenny will fix you something when she gets home from the keep fit class.”

“What happened to you? When you married my daughter, you weren’t perfect, but you weren’t despicable. You could have been such a nice young man”

“Things change, Cybil. We move on. We grow old and we die. And if we don’t eat anything, we die a lot quicker than those that do. So my advice is to eat while you still can!”

“But…”

Well, that was it. I blew a gasket!.

“Damn and hell…are you hungry or not?”

“Maybe…just a little.”

“Then eat! Stop wailing. Do I have to spell out to you the results of self-induced starvation?”

I know….I know…you all think I’m a gentleman. The internet is great for that. But truth is I had lost patience, and was expertly retrieving the TV remote with my sock-clad foot from its hiding place between the settee cushions, as Cybil, who had finished circling the meat around the plate, cautiously stabbed a green chili pepper, having first inspected it for insects. I was staring at the TV, the perfect mindless distraction, when I turned my head just in time to see her stuffing a large green chili pepper into her mouth. I jumped up, I really did, in an attempt to stop her…but it was too late. There was a pause, then the old girl shuffled in her chair, her facial features started to contort, wrinkle, eyes blinking as she stopped chewing. A moment later those same eyes were wild and piercing. I could sense the pain behind them, the ferocity of the chili pepper burning in her throat, sending violent thoughts to her withered brain. I watched in terrified awe as her weak hands gripped the armrests, teeth grinding, shaking as she wobbled from side to side; her vocal chords beginning to emit a simpering whine, just as her eyes rolled back into her head. I couldn’t decide whether to race for water, or dive for the phone. I chose the latter, cursing my choice of Greek food as I dialed the emergency services.

“Ambulance please…what? No…ambulance…my mother-in-law, she’s eaten a chili pepper and she’s choking to death…what?… it happened last week! Idiot, of course it just happened! 202 Fore Street…yes above ‘In-A-Spin’ launderette…what do you mean twenty minutes, she’ll be dead in two! The best you can do…what does that mean, my mother-in-law is riding the lightning here! I understand…be quick…age?…I don’t know, anything between eighty and a hundred…she’s pretty damn old, just hurry, okay.” I slammed down the phone and turned back to Cybil, now slumped in the armchair.

“Oh my God, I’ve killed you with a kebab!” I remember blurting out, then jumped over the coffee table to be at her side. I grabbed that skeletal hand, feeling for a pulse.

Nothing.

“Com’on, Cybil, you know your daughter will kill me; don’t you be dying on me now. I’ve already paid for your flying lessons!” I was shaking her, wildly. She didn’t respond.

At that moment, Jenny turned the key in the door.

“Kelly! What the heck are you doing? You’ll kill her!”

“I’m trying to save her, honey. I think she’s dead already!”

“What!” she cried, dropping the yoga mat to the floor.

“I think I killed her with a kebab. I called emergency services, they’re on the way.”

Jenny placed her ear to her mother’s chest.

“She’s alive…just. Her pulse is very weak…she’s hanging on.”

“You think she’ll be okay to fly?”

“Fly…she’s an inch from the damn grave!”

“But she’ll be okay, right?”

“She’s unconscious. How’d this happen.”

“Well…er…um…she said she was hungry. I fancied kebab tonight. We were watching TV, so I ordered a take-out from ‘Artburn’… Al’s place down the street. I think she ate a whole green chili, one of them Carolina Reaper chili. I didn’t see it, well…just as she ate it, but then it was too late.”

“You gave an eighty-eighty year old woman Greek food with Carolina Reaper chili in it?”

“You know… she likes to try new things, honey. I thought she would like a change. The menu said nothing about chili peppers.”

Then I recall hearing sirens approaching. After pacing up and down, I insisted on gathering up my mother-in-law and carrying her toward the door. In a fit of panic, Jenny lunged in an effort to move the coffee table. Seeing the foreboding of tragedy in slow motion, but too late.

My legs gave way underneath me as I tripped forward, giving my mother-in-law’s airborne trajectory real momentum. She crash landed somewhere between the ottoman and the TV set. Gray’s Anatomy was just beginning.

Jenny screamed, climbed over me to get to her mother. There seemed no way an old girl could survive such a hard landing.

“Hell, Kelly, now you’ve killed her for sure!” Jenny exclaimed, sobbing great sobs. On the TV Meredith was telling Derek Shepherd that she was about to leave him. Meredith was sobbing too.

“Maybe…honey, maybe she was already dead before she hit the floor!” I responded, choosing the best of any bad outcome, a painless second death…well, but for her insides, having been charred by a chili fire.

The doorbell rang. Two paramedics were waiting for entrance, calling out:

“Anybody home?”

I opened the door.

“Hurry, please. My mother-in-law is choking, or was. I think she’s dead.”

One paramedic, the one who bore an incredible resemblance to Vice President, Joe Biden, looked at his partner, seeing the old girl spread-eagled across the floor, one furry slipper gone, chili sauce dripping off her chin. The second paramedic immediately reached for his radio.

“Better send the police,” he said, “…this looks suspiciously like a beating!” He continued, sounding as if he was Peter Falk.

“What? No…no…she was choking, then became unconscious.” I insisted. “I was bringing her to the door to save precious seconds, and I fell across over the ottoman. Really, I think she was already dead in flight!”

“That’s right, there’s no malice here…is she alive?” Jenny asked.

“Step away, both of you. Let me get a better look at her.”

The paramedic screened Cybil, taking a pulse, before opening a case that contained the echo-cardiogram.

There fell a complete silence.

On TV, Derek Shepherd told Meredith that he was not going to let her leave.

Jenny reached for the remote, but not before Derek told Meredith. “Let’s have a Greek meal and talk it over…” The TV shut down.

“Hmmm…very weak, but alive.” The paramedic said. A flutter of relief beat through my heart. “Let’s be getting her to the hospital. You two wait for the police. I’ll give them a report over the radio, but first we must get this poor, indefensible old woman to the hospital.”

“She has a flying lesson on Monday,” I said.

“Honey, please!”

“Well… I think she was really looking forward to it, you know.”

“I think she’s done enough flying, honey. Let’s just make sure she’s going to be okay.”

The paramedics gently placed Cybil on the gurney ,just as two policemen arrived. One paramedic suggested they get some handcuffs.

“These two called in that an old woman was choking. It looks to me like there are a couple of broken ribs, but she’s breathing. There’s no sign of any obstruction in her throat. Suspicious I’d say.”

One policeman, the one clearly showing signs of disgust, took out his notebook.

The paramedics went out the door with Cybil, still showing no sign of awareness.

“Look, officer, nothing but an accident happened here. I need to go with mother to the hospital” Jenny pleaded.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, we need to get a statement from each of you.”

The policeman was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Al Pashwa, from the Greek restaurant. I looked at him blankly. The officer explained that an investigation was in progress, and asked him to come back.

Al continued, refusing to leave.

“I just wanted to tell Kelly my delivery boy brought the wrong order. I hope it hasn’t ruined their evening. We can offer a free take out for any inconvenience?”

“It’s okay. Al. Things happen. Do you know anyone wants a free flying lesson?” I asked.

1. mcullen
  
  September 2, 2014
  
  Omigosh, this is hilarious! With Jumpstart, the in-person writing group that I facilitate, when we read our work aloud, we consider it to be fiction (unless the writer tells us otherwise). As listeners and commentators, we really don’t need to separate fact from fiction. I’m going to go with fiction here, because otherwise, I might be considered to be a cold and callous person, with no empathy in my soul. Whether this is fiction or fact, it’s truly great writing! Kelly, your stories are fascinating!
  
Ke11y

September 3, 2014

Thank you, Marlene:

You can breathe easily. Total fiction. My mother-in-law, while she was alive, was sweeter than honey, and loved me. However, the piece was inspired by a funny happening many years ago, when at a restaurant. I have simply embellished and fictionalized her need for a glass of water that long ago evening.

1. mcullen
  
  September 3, 2014
  
  Yes, thank you. I am breathing easier! Quite a relief to hear.
  
Ke11y

September 5, 2014

That is it for me. This is as far as my life will go. Here, standing on the platform of the Manchester bound train. If I’d been privileged to see the book of fate at twenty, it might have scared me. But I didn’t, and now I’m not surprised by the news. You only get so much out of life before payback time. And I have it all. But that was last week.

The doctor, leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, chin resting on knuckles, could have been a lawyer with bad news, or a bank manager about to tell you he’s going to call in your overdraft.

“It’s not the best news, Richard,” was all he said.

Well, that’s not quite true. He said some other stuff, but I never caught it. I just knew I had to walk out of his office on my own two feet, not show how my legs were trembling. Outside, the sun was shining, across the street there was a building blocking the sun, red brick, and pigeons were wheeling round and round in the blue winter sky above the London streets. I remember standing, watching them until the screeching brakes of a London bus brought me out of my daze. On its side was an advertising banner which read: Laugh and the world laughs with you.

Whatever the joke, whatever people will say when I’m gone, one thing is for sure, it happens; pay back. For the first sixty years I lived every day with some inspirational idea that life is for movement, for invention. How strange then, that I should spend my precious hours sitting on a bench among the hustle and bustle of Euston. It’s hard to imagine where all these people are coming from, going to. I’m suddenly aware just how fraught life is. Traffic is stopped, drivers thump steering wheels, yell frustration, put on make-up, or snap at children. Then there are diggers, digging up the road, cranes, trucks hissing, everywhere there is noise and bustle and confusion. It has to be confusion, people muttering, eating while walking, talking on cell phones, hailing cabs, stamping their feet when it never stops for them. I notice all this, because it is happening in slow motion, as if I am no longer part of the rush. I’ve stepped outside the confusion, and watched as everything revealed itself clearly. Nothing missed my attention, nothing, not the old woman sorting through the rubbish at the entrance to Euston station; not the woman smoking her cigarette as though it might be her last, and who, in this world, would bet against it? The kids playing on the small green, watch a white paper-bag being lifted and swirled around on the twists of London air. How they dance and laughed to catch it, their hands high, hoping it might just come down, but instead teases them. Their mother, reading a magazine, rocks a stroller. I was enjoying not moving, not inventing, and not ready to get up onto my legs and make them walk me into the station. I could have driven my car. But there are times when you have to accept that doing something you’ve done every day without a second thought, is one day impossible.

I could hear things in my head, I suppose it was the dull echo of information running round my brain, yet to be deciphered. How was I going to tell my family? Only now were their lives settled, even perfect, houses, wives, cars, good jobs, such news is an inconvenience when all else is going well. What a joke.
The train rattled on to its destination at speed. Why so quickly? I needed time to sort this out in my head, and everything was rushing me to a certain point of realization, some unstoppable destiny. There’s a bandit inside my body, with the reputation of Jesse James, and this bandit was chasing me down, a killing on his mind. In from the west, riding the moon, and racing the clouds, this killer was coming on a black stallion.

“Dialogue with the body, Richard, you’ve got to start out right, okay? You’ve got to visualize yourself beating this, that’s the first, and the most important part of the treatment.”

The rare, but spectacular phenomenon of spontaneous remission persists in the annals of medicine, . . . a fascinating mystery, but at the same time a solid basis for hope in the future: if several hundred patients have succeeded in doing this sort of thing, eliminating vast numbers of malignant cells on their own, then the possibility that medicine can learn to accomplish the same thing at will, is surely within reach of imagining.

“Science can only work if the mind is right.”

I wish to hell this train would slow down. I’m not ready to tell my story. I’ve got to somehow leave them laughing. A bit like telling the Sunday school teacher that Jesse James is coming to town, and boy is he pissed! A smile crossed my face, it helped me get farther into my journey without breaking down and sobbing in front of my fellow passengers, who must surely have been wondering what I was smiling at, having my eyes closed to shut out the horrible reality.

I sat there, being shuffled to and fro with the movement of the carriage. Was this the train that would eventually take me to the pearly gates? There weren’t many people on it, must have been a good week for living. I felt a sudden shiver that maybe this was the train to Hell. I take it all back, everything I’ve done wrong, all the bad practical jokes, the inability to be a good father, the ridiculous husband, the worse lover, I take it all back, and will be a much better person right now. Right now, God. This very second I’m a better man. Stop the train. The train didn’t stop. How was I to tell my kids? A cruel trick by any standards, but then didn’t the worst bandits simply shoot people in the back anyway? I’m not leaving a financial mess. There’s three million pounds in my bank account. Not a penny, not a million pounds can help me. The tax man, I’ll call him, Robin Hood, not the fantasy Robin Hood we all know and love, but the real Robin Hood who lived in Nottingham, stole the king’s deer, robbed the rich and kept it! We’re dealing with reality here, so we know that Robin was in fact a robber, a killer. So now we’ve got Jesse, racing down on his steed to shoot me in the back. Robin Hood, aiming to take every penny in my account, and keep it! I was brought out of my reverie by the woman sat opposite, eating a sandwich, rattling and reading a newspaper. In the bottom corner of the back page was an ad for cancer research.

When the ticket collector walked through the train, checking tickets, the train was already half-way to its destination.

“Your ticket, sir?”

“I’m sorry, don’t seem to have one.”

“If you cannot find it, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step off the train at the next stop.”

I left the train, walked up the platform, searched my pockets, and threw my train ticket into the waste bin. I heard the jolt of the train leaving the platform.

Why on earth I should wonder about heaven right now is quite beyond me. That is it for me. This is as far as my life will go.

1. mcullen
  
  September 5, 2014
  
  Such an interesting combination of hope, humor and poignancy. I love the part about confusion. I think most of us dwell in the Land of Confusion. I especially enjoy, “on the twists of London air.” Lovely writing. I also love the part about Jesse James and Robin Hood. Such great writing.

The most important tool . . . to help me make the big choices in life — Steve Jobs

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