It is official. Of course the truth is it began nearly 65 years ago when my personally primordial cord was cut. I suppose though it is not official until it is acknowledged. Uncle. My thousand-cut quest for quietus has begun.
Sure, as a younger man, from a distance, I nodded at death giving it all due respect but I was not on speaking terms until my first heart attack at age 50. And even then our daily, (sometimes weekly), conversations were centered around the fragility of life, not so much any sort of ultimatum. So at that time with that new understanding of vulnerability, I successfully fought back, losing 60 pounds and changing my exercise and diet regimen, and I have been hospital-free for the past eight years. But now in approximately this past year it has been harder to ignore the smaller cuts; knees, hands, eyes, tremors, shoulder, ears, skin, strength, agility, stamina. I am told that for my years I am actually in quite good shape. In theory this countdown should go on for years or even for two or three more decades, and that is my intention. Nonetheless, my conversations with the pale oppressor have taken a more somber, serious turn.
In one recent conversation, I asked how much of the gradual lessening of active contribution as one enters and navigates their senior years was due to actual limitations (i.e. his countdown) and how much was due to lower expectations (i.e. our natural tendency to regard older persons as debilitated). From his own observations, he agreed that there was injustice and (sadly) significant wasted experience but he could not (or would not) speak to how it should be. When I pushed asking if this was intentional, meant to acclimate one to the idea of a nevermore, or if it was just the nature of endings, he responded saying that the planning and strategy were above his pay grade; he was merely in place to execute. I continued, rather strongly suggesting that wealth and power took advantage of him to maintain their wealth and power. I further suggested that the rich and powerful, the decision- and rule-makers, the arbitrary, pretentious, superficial, controlling, unjust, gap-widening bosses are Death incarnate. Death was offended. He adamantly denied that he was a killer acting with intention and he staunchly defended his role as functionary, merely providing a requested service.
In another conversation I asked ‘His Highborn Sallowness’ why he was so feared. I mean, he describes himself as a functionary and from where I sit he is rather unassuming; quiet, not the best conversationalist, a little drab in appearance and demeanor but comes across as efficient and economical. He replied, “there really is nothing to be afraid of.” Which led me to the question, “are you saying there is nothing after this life?” his surprising answer: “I don’t know.” Come on, man! You would think Death would know what comes next. But he again insisted that as a conduit, the existence or not of an afterlife was above his pay grade. I grasped on to his mention of conduit making the point that conduit implied a passage; something on the other end. But according to him, in the performance of his task he is only allowed to see the passing from this life. When I asked if those who passed then somehow stayed with him, he said, “no, they pass.” So I asked again, “to where?” and he once again replied, “I don’t know.” And when I asked if he was even curious, he said, “it’s not my place.” It is hard getting a straight answer from Death. Though in probably his longest and most impassioned speech to date, speaking in the third-person, he then further explained. “Death is not other-worldly. Death is of this world, here, now, everywhere, always. Anyone can learn from Death, anytime. Commune with Death and ye shall be freer in Life.”
In another conversation I asked about his relationship with pain. He claimed it was not a relationship so much as a series of flings. Yes, they saw a lot of each other but only because they traveled in the same circles. According to Death, pain is far too busy and complicated and he couldn’t (and wouldn’t want to) keep up with her if he tried. What’s more, he pointed out that in every occasion in which they are both present, once he steps in, pain immediately exits to feast upon nearby loved ones. He also expressed disdain for pain’s short attention span. He said pain was easily bored and though time often gets the credit for healing wounds, it is in actuality the fact that pain loses interest and moves on.
Yesterday I asked Death if he had aspirations beyond his role as functionary. As much as Death can, he smiled, contemplatively. After a few moments he replied, “I would like to be a teacher.” I encouraged this thought expressing appreciation for what I have learned from our conversations. He countered saying that he felt his essential assigned task overshadowed any efforts he might make to connect with someone. Opposite of many aspiring teachers, Death is afraid people take him too seriously which he has found impedes any sort of mutually beneficial learning experience. Instead of wringing hands or quaking in fear or creating stories or using him for nefarious deeds, he would much prefer that people would see him just as he is – a part of life.
In an early conversation, at the end, I got up and instinctively reached out my hand in appreciation and respect then noticeably hesitated. He waved off my embarrassment saying it was not my time and in a moment of deathly exuberance reached out with a hearty handshake and a quick double-tap to my shoulder. I had made a friend. We stood there for a few moments (as friends do) making idle chitchat and he also explained that he came to those at the end in varying ways depending on their receptivity. For some, just a light touch in the center of the forehead, for most, a two-handed, face-to-face, arm’s length gripping of the shoulders, and on occasion a good shaking was necessary to help them let go. It was also in this conversation that we came to addressing each other on a first-name basis. Mort then told me that when it was my time, when he came for me, it would be in a big-old bear hug and he would hold on to me for as long as he could until I passed. Until then, we will remain lifelong friends.
