I’m guessing Penny wrote this in November 2016. Her cancer diagnosis was in February, 2016, followed by recovery from emergency surgery, a summer of chemotherapy, and “the big surgery” a week before Thanksgiving. We must have had some early snow that year.
Actually, a little more investigating suggests that some version of this post was written at least as long ago as 2013 – several years before Penny’s initial diagnosis.
Driving home from work last week, I met Death. On that familiar 1.6-mile stretch on Burton Street – the one that I really should walk instead of driving three times per week. I was as usual multitasking: What shall I make for dinner, fat chance that anyone thought to move the wet laundry into the dryer, gotta email Corey about the change in schedule, move to the left lane to pass the parked bus.
Then I caught a glimpse of smooth wool slacks, brown pin-stripes resting on a curved knee brushing up against the glove box door right next to me.
Who wears brown pinstripes? No business card, neon sign, or formal introductions necessary: Death was in my passenger seat. I could feel it. My hands tightened around the steering wheel as I touched the brakes gently and furtively glanced at the car in front of me, the oncoming traffic, and the driveway on the right. Nothing unusual. And yet, there it was sitting next to me. And you thought cellphones were a distraction while driving!
Whatever you do, do NOT look at him. It is one thing to have a brush with Death; but when you meet Death face-to-face, you don’t get to come back again.
Brown pinstripes must be 21st century for “scary brown robe.”
Just because Death does not look like we imagine, he is still not a master of disguise. He is what he is. But in a wool suit, what would cover his face?
I knew I wasn’t dreaming, because in my dreams – of which I have and remember many – as soon as I wonder whether I am dreaming, the answer is clear: I am. From that point on, I can both observe myself and be the actor upon the stage, even if I still cannot control all the other players or the scene changes.
The car slowed down for the stop light. I bet I am going to hit them all red today.
And why are devils always red and angels always white? Perhaps this is an Angel of Death. That sounds much better than “the Grim Reaper,” I think.
The brown pinstripes yielded no clues. The light turned green and the short train of cars inched forward in the snow, past the funeral home. Irony. I am sitting between Death and a funeral home. I paid particular attention to the space between my bumper and the Toyota in front of me.
Why DO we call it a funeral HOME?
The left turn signal in front of me started blinking. This drive is taking forever! I braked and prepared to sit behind the Toyota until it could turn left into the daycare center.
The mother in that car must be picking up a toddler. My kids are growing up. They’d be okay without me.
I wondered if I was supposed to say something then, perhaps in a noble act of selflessness, say something like, ‘Why don’t you take me and not that young mother.’ But I didn’t say anything. I sat there with that brown-pinstriped S.O.B. next to me.
That’s when it happened. To say it was ‘like slow motion’ is wrong. It’s more like your brain is suddenly operating at a higher resolution. I saw the mom in a minivan in the daycare driveway wave her hand at the Toyota in front of me and then the mini-van tried to sneak a left turn in front of the Toyota and onto Burton Street. At the same time, the Toyota decided to gun a left turn between the oncoming cars and into the daycare center driveway. She hadn’t seen the mini-van mom wave. The oncoming cars. The snow. I pressed my foot down harder on the brake pedal. It played out like a script.
I can still see that brown wool-covered knee. I can replay the accident. But I have no memory of what happened after the minivan and the Toyota collided and were hit by oncoming traffic.
The next thing I remember is a police officer knocking at my window. “Are you okay, ma’am?” I nodded. “Okay, please clear the area.” He pointed across the hood of my car. Another police officer was directing traffic. She motioned me into the right lane.
At the next stop light, I had to do it. I looked in the rear view. And in a strange bionic-eye moment, I saw him again, standing at the side of the road. He tipped his brown felted Fedora.
Years ago I played with this idea: that we have some choice in the ultimate decision about dying. Back then brushes with Death were the stuff of short stories. I could avoid staring Death in the face – even when Dad died.
That Sunday morning Rand rolled over in bed complaining of terrible pain. He never complains about that. It took about ten minutes for Dr. Google, WebMD, and me to determine the most likely cause: kidney stones. So, instead of heading to Trillium Woods Hospice Center, I was once again in the (by then familiar) hospital emergency room with my husband. Why is cell reception so rotten inside hospital ERs?
By the time I got around to checking my voice mails, it was almost old news. Mom’s voice was sad but steady. “… And how is Rand doing? Talk to you soon.” End of message.
“Soon” happened late in the day – after tests and meds and discharge, after collecting the kids from their respective hosts, after “Dad” had been whisked away to the funeral home. Ironically we chose that same funeral home – the one on Burton Street half way between the campus where I worked and our house on Griggs Street.
I know the last thing I said to Dad on the Saturday before: “I love you.” I never said good-bye. At the funeral service, I refused to stand next to the open casket. From a distance you could see the waxy face, the fluffed hair, the head resting on a satin pillow. There was no Dad there and Death had long departed.
The following week Mom needed open heart surgery; there was no delaying it. With apologies to those who have had kidney stones (because I know that it IS very painful), Mom’s heart crisis easily overshadowed our kidney stones ordeal. We went from care management for Dad to care management for Mom. We had no time to corner Death – no time for screaming at him or crying or even getting one good look at his face.
Last year everything changed.