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The Silence of Death |
by Cathy Crenshaw Doheny
"I don't want to ever have to do that," I told my husband, as I got into our car in the church parking lot.
"Don't worry, Honey, I'm not going to let cancer take me out," he said with his usual machismo. He was hardly convincing, given the fact that he had opted to sit in the car, while I went in to the visitation for a friend's husband, who had just died of cancer. "It just hits too close to home," he had said.
"You know, death is not contagious." I had half joked. I understood his point of view. After all, he had just been diagnosed with a deadly cancer a little over two years ago. At the age of 37, he was now in remission after a stem cell transplant, but we had no idea how long that would last, given his less than encouraging prognosis. Even so, I had wanted him to go in to the visitation with me—not to comfort me because I was sad for my friend, but for me to see him walk into death's house unfazed. I wanted to witness his aliveness against a backdrop of death.
"If you die first, I don't want to have to stand there calmly with an accepting smile on my face. I don't want to have to pretend like everything is all for the best when my whole world is falling apart. I walked in there, and all of his family was smiling and talking, as if this was some sort of social event." I would much rather have seen Laura crying hysterically on the floor or kicking the altar, angry at the injustice of cancer taking her husband at only 55 years of age. At least that would have been real. Instead, the family had all stood there politely, perfectly calm and put together. Even their mascara stood at attention, refusing to smudge the blankness of propriety.
"I really don't like to talk about my own death, Honey." Yes, I knew that Kevin was superstitious about death. Even before cancer, he didn't like to talk about it and refused to go to hospitals or funerals.
"Well, just so you know, I'm not going to have one of those formal visitations just because it's expected. And I don't want that kind of phoniness when I die, either."
"Can we not talk about this right now?" he asked, as we drove through the rain and fog.
"Why not now? We each need to know what the other would want."
"Well, I've already told you that I want to be cremated. And the rest, I don't care about."
"Should we keep your ashes or release them somewhere?" I pushed the topic, as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
"No point in them collecting dust, I guess. Just spread them in the ocean off the Outer Banks."
"What about a memorial service? Would you want one for your loved ones to pay their final respects?"
"Yeah, I guess you should have one of those. Whatever...I mean it's up to you. I just don't want to talk about it.
"Well, just so you know. I want all of my viable organs donated. In fact, I'd love to donate my body to science; if they'll take it, that is. Maybe they could actually learn more about CIDP." I had lived with Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy (CIDP), a rare disease similar to MS, for the past seven years and had been discouraged by the lack of treatment options available. Practical by nature, I saw no reason to waste my body by burying it or burning it. After all, I would no longer need it anymore, so someone might as well get some use out of it.
"Okay, I'll donate everything, if that's what you really want."
"And don't get all sentimental when I die either and postpone donating those organs. They will do the most good, if they are transplanted immediately after I die. Kevin, are you listening? This is very important." I could already see that his mind was drifting to protect him from the awkwardness of this conversation. He sped down the last few miles of Harris Boulevard, anxious to be home and freed from the captivity of this morbid topic.
"Got it. Donate your organs immediately."
"And don't waste money on a funeral or flowers or anything like that. I mean, unless it would make you feel better."
"Honey, if you die, nothing is going to make me feel better."
"Exactly. I won't be there. Funerals and memorial services are for the survivors, not the dead. So, if it's not going to give you comfort, then it's just a waste of time and expense. If you really want to do something to commemorate my life, you could organize a concert of classical musicians—a choir or whomever is available—and sell tickets to raise money for CIDP or cancer research or whatever charity you like. All I ask is that you only have music—no talking or preaching—and that the money goes to a good cause."
"Okay. I'll remember all of that. So, we don't need to talk about it again," he said with relief, finally turning onto our street. We rode in silence through the last stretch of gloomy rain and fog. When we pulled into the garage, Kevin turned to me before getting out. "You know, if I had gotten married to the girl I dated in college, she would never have been able to deal with cancer and the possibility of death. She would have come out of that visitation, and we would have made small talk all the way home. And that would have made the concept of death even scarier." We sat in the dark for a moment, as we each digested that thought.
"I think there is a compliment in there somewhere," I said hesitantly, finally realizing that my strong husband was scared, after all. I felt a little ashamed that I had pressed the topic, even though I knew it would make him uncomfortable.
He chuckled in response. "Yeah, that's the compliment. You don't hesitate to talk about death or life or anything in between. You don't give it the power of keeping you in silence, even when it makes others uncomfortable."
Ironically, for once I was stunned into silence. It was the most insightful compliment anyone had ever given me, yet I felt unworthy. While others showed their fear by not talking, I often showed mine by relying on my words too much, always unwilling to give up control of a situation. I had been afraid to give death the upper hand. I had thought I would outsmart it by leaving my organs behind to live on. Yet, death was still death—so final. In that moment, I realized with sadness that words may have made me the biggest coward of all.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to Kevin, through guarded lips.
"For what?" He seemed surprised.
I let my silence answer this time, as I laid my head on my husband's strong shoulder.
Cathy Crenshaw Doheny is an award-winning freelance writer, specializing in creative nonfiction. As the Charlotte International Adoption Examiner on examiner.com, her pieces have been featured in various online and print publications. You may learn more about her writing at her blog and read her pieces in several upcoming print anthologies, including Root Exposure, Unsent Letters, and AuthorNation.
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