As If Death Summoned. Alan E. Rose

epidemic: the lack of bullshit. We have no time for it. No time, that was a recurring theme. People cut to the chase.

      Cal offered, “Samuel Johnson once observed that ‘when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight— ’”

      “‘It concentrates his mind wonderfully.’”

      He laughed. “It’s true. I think there’s an art to dying, just as there’s an art to living. What’s surprised me is to find they’re pretty much the same: Stay focused on the present, on the here and now, not the past or the future. Live each day as if it were your last. Be with each person as if this were the last time you would ever see him or her. Pretty basic stuff. I had expected something more profound. But that sums it up, I think. And I’ve found that if I’m living this moment fully, I don’t mind that it might be my last.”

      “I’ve heard several staff say you are a model to them on how to live, and how to die.”

      “Yes, I try to discourage that. People around here expect me to be some kind of saint. You know, to die by the book. Nobly, with dignity, grace and wisdom, at peace with God and the world. You’re familiar with Kübler-Ross’s stages of dying? People see me at the acceptance stage. All the other stages— the sadness and the anger, the depression and the denial— I go through alone each night by myself.”

      He took another drink.

      “My parents back in Oklahoma want me to come home. I tell them I have my work to finish. They say, come back just for a visit. But I fear if I went back, I’d never return.” He had a slight Midwest accent. “I left Tulsa over twenty years ago. To return now would seem a kind of failure, going home to die. And, believe me, the Bible Belt is a terrible place for a gay man to die.”

      “There aren’t that many good places.”

      He chuckled. “True. But the Midwest is rather thick with that brand of Christian who’s fond of saying they hate the sin, not the sinner. Though from my experience, it’s too fine a distinction for most of them to make. Father Paul reminds me we shouldn’t judge Jesus and Christianity by his groupies.” He smiled as if just remembering. “My father wrote me a letter last week. ‘Have you made your peace with God?’ he wanted to know. I wrote back, ‘We’ve never quarreled.’” He chuckled again to himself. I could detect no bitterness in him, no sadness, no self-pity, which given the circumstances, could have been forgiven.

      “You appear to be at peace,” I said. I was feeling a kind of envy.

      “I have my moments. This is one of them,” he said. “You have family around here?”

      “Yes . . . We have our issues, too.” Then I added, “My partner died three months ago. I’m familiar with the routine: the nausea, the diarrhea, the medications. I know the drill. So, if I can be of help . . .”

      “Thanks, but I have wonderful brothers and sisters here who are caring for me. Like many of us, I had to find a new family who would love and accept me for who I am. I feel very fortunate to have their support. Why would I want to go back to Tulsa? No,” he shook his head heavily, “they can have my ashes.”

      I paused before speaking again. “I’m not sure I can be what people here need right now.”

      “I know you have your issues to work through. Sandy told me. You should know there are no secrets among this staff.” He smiled. “Father Paul is always saying that we, each of us, is here for some reason. For some purpose. Do you believe in God?”

      “ . . . I’m no longer sure.”

      “I do. Now. I didn’t for much of my life. Being born in the Bible Belt, I naturally developed an early aversion to Christianity. But through this epidemic, through my work, I’ve rediscovered my faith. And, too, dying puts a different spin on things. Wait and see.”

      I nodded. Sure, maybe I’ll wait and see.

      Then he said something that surprised me. “We’re very fortunate, you know. To be here, to be part of this.”

      I murmured noncommittally. Fortunate wasn’t exactly the word I would use to describe these past ten years.

      “There are few jobs, I think, that take one into the very heart of life, that allow us to accompany people through their dying and put us in touch with our own spiritual depths.”

      His eyes shone once again with that strange luminosity, as if already catching the light of some supernal realm they were about to enter.

      “This epidemic has done wonderful things for our souls. I’ve had more and deeper experiences in the past thirteen years than most people would have in a lifetime. I’ve seen the best in a man rise up, surprising even himself. I’ve witnessed such bravery and courage, such acts of self-sacrifice and compassion that are usually only found on a battlefield. I’ve seen the soul pass out of a man with his last breath. I swear I did; it was a small puff of vapor and light. It sounds strange, I know, and I don’t always feel like this, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” He looked down at his shaking hand. “When all is considered, the body is a small price to pay, don’t you think?”

      I smiled with some embarrassment. “Careful. You’re almost sounding like a saint.”

      He sighed. “Yes, I’ve got to watch that.”

      I could tell he was fatigued. His voice was hoarse, his breathing labored. I made movements to leave. “I should probably be going.”

      “I’ve enjoyed our talk. I hope we’ll have more opportunities. Some people center me simply by being in their presence. You’re one of them. Father Paul is another.”

      “I was thinking the same of you. Well, I’ll let you get back to writing your eulogy.”

      As I stood to leave, he said, “A favor?”

      “Name it.”

      “When my time comes— or rather, when my time is up— I expect there’ll be many people attending my memorial service.”

      “I expect there will.”

      “I’d like you not to be there.”

      I blinked.

      “On that day, go off by yourself. Climb some mountain. Eat an orange in my honor and recall the times we’ll have shared together. Whisper my name to the wind, and say good-bye.”

      Tears were welling up, and I said softly, “I promise,” then turned and left.

      • • •

      In the few months Cal had remaining, we spoke often, when he was in the office and feeling up to it. And when he no longer could make it into the office, I would visit him at home, and then in the hospital, and then in hospice. We shared a common philosophical bent and had great conversations, about life and death and the possibility of a human soul, about some kind of afterlife, or a cycle of incarnations, cycling, cycling, forever cycling toward perfection. Perhaps what made these discussions so special was that we knew one of us was very close to the end of his life, and that both of us were facing unknown futures.

      Almost in spite of himself, Cal remained a saint to the end, playing his role on how to die fully conscious and with dignity. He had been right. His memorial service, held in the downtown Unitarian Church, had standing room only. Attending were his staff, his board of directors, the mayor and members of the city council; the governor had come up from Salem; hundreds of clients and volunteers and friends were there to say good-bye. He was forty-five years old.

      On that day in early May, I climbed Table Mountain out in the Columbia Gorge. The day was especially clear, the wildflowers spreading across the hillsides like confetti following one’s going-away party. I reached the summit in the afternoon, grateful to have it to myself, and sat there, shirt off, feeling the sun on my back, the breeze murmuring in my ears like the faint whispers of distant ancestors. I peeled my orange, eating it slowly as I recalled Cal and this brief time our paths had come together— while remembering another