It was clear from the minute I turned the lights on that he'd gone. And yet, certainty battled with hope and we touched him, felt for his pulse, put our hands over his heart, looking for signs of life.
I knew, though and I took out the prongs from his nostrils and turned the oxygen cylinder off. We called his doctor, who said that because the death had taken place at home, there was no need to bring him back to the hospital. A family doctor would examine my father and give a Death Certificate, which would suffice at the crematorium.
We called a doctor we'd known for years. I suppose we could call him a family doctor, but we remembered his reluctance to put himself out in any way. Surprisingly enough, he agreed to come and take a look but he recommended that we go to the hospital. Only the hospital can give a Death Certificate he told us.
Later it occurred to me to wonder if his reluctance to put his name to anything official sprang from his not actually being a registered medical practitioner, a circumstance he had carefully concealed from all his patients all these years. I am capable of being uncharitable even in the most difficult circumstances.
So they came, the doctor and his wife. Meanwhile, my grandmother was certain she could detect a pulse. It's your own agitated pulse beating off his skin, I told her. We sat around, not knowing what to do.
He came, stethoscope and all, and a short examination confirmed what we already knew. Some slight changes in position were made and Aunty N gave my mother a sympathetic hug. She said to Dr. R in a hushed undervoice, let us pray.
With Dr. R at the head, Aunty N at the side, me at the foot of the bed and my mother and grandmother somewhere out of the line of my vision, we stood.
And the good doctor prayed, not for the soul of my father to be taken into the Lord, but he prayed that everything should go well for those of us who remained, in the getting of our Death Certificate. In all the paper work that would follow, Oh, Lord, let there be no trouble.
I was glad that I could not catch my mother's eye. Laughter over a newly dead body would be unseemly. Next to me, Aunty N shifted a little uncomfortably. Would that she had the directing of the prayer. I wondered what my grandmother was making of this. In a little while, the news that there would be no rituals or ceremonies would grieve her more. For now, the Amens were probably causing her some moments of discomfort.
Prayers said, the doctor and his wife left, not having given us a certificate that we could take to the crematorium. That was left to a friend of mine, an old school mate, to do.
I knew, though and I took out the prongs from his nostrils and turned the oxygen cylinder off. We called his doctor, who said that because the death had taken place at home, there was no need to bring him back to the hospital. A family doctor would examine my father and give a Death Certificate, which would suffice at the crematorium.
We called a doctor we'd known for years. I suppose we could call him a family doctor, but we remembered his reluctance to put himself out in any way. Surprisingly enough, he agreed to come and take a look but he recommended that we go to the hospital. Only the hospital can give a Death Certificate he told us.
Later it occurred to me to wonder if his reluctance to put his name to anything official sprang from his not actually being a registered medical practitioner, a circumstance he had carefully concealed from all his patients all these years. I am capable of being uncharitable even in the most difficult circumstances.
So they came, the doctor and his wife. Meanwhile, my grandmother was certain she could detect a pulse. It's your own agitated pulse beating off his skin, I told her. We sat around, not knowing what to do.
He came, stethoscope and all, and a short examination confirmed what we already knew. Some slight changes in position were made and Aunty N gave my mother a sympathetic hug. She said to Dr. R in a hushed undervoice, let us pray.
With Dr. R at the head, Aunty N at the side, me at the foot of the bed and my mother and grandmother somewhere out of the line of my vision, we stood.
And the good doctor prayed, not for the soul of my father to be taken into the Lord, but he prayed that everything should go well for those of us who remained, in the getting of our Death Certificate. In all the paper work that would follow, Oh, Lord, let there be no trouble.
I was glad that I could not catch my mother's eye. Laughter over a newly dead body would be unseemly. Next to me, Aunty N shifted a little uncomfortably. Would that she had the directing of the prayer. I wondered what my grandmother was making of this. In a little while, the news that there would be no rituals or ceremonies would grieve her more. For now, the Amens were probably causing her some moments of discomfort.
Prayers said, the doctor and his wife left, not having given us a certificate that we could take to the crematorium. That was left to a friend of mine, an old school mate, to do.
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5 comments:
I am capable of being uncharitable even in the most difficult circumstances.
I would think those are precisely the circumstances when one is most likely to be uncharitable.
Falstaff: Usually, yes. But when one's been trained to be most charitable to those who are most offensive, and since difficult circumstance bring offensive people crawling out of the woodwork, it's about the ease of practice.
And being uncharitable at such a time is an act of rebellion.
What a silly story. Strange man, the doctor. Life's funniest moments seem to occur when things are really, really bad. Or is it that you feel like laughing, in a hysterical, helpless sort of way?
Laughter at such moments feels wrong, but it's not an uncommon reaction. The brain reels at the sudden void and does some astoundingly silly things. I am speaking from personal experience, of course.
//on a lighter note, the name of this blog is probably my most favorite Dylan line ever.
Banno, km: There's that; but also, this was genuinely absurd, this prayer.
On the other hand, why not - it's what folks pray to Ganesh for, and it's a useful, practical prayer as prayers go, the dead being beyond all help anyway.
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