THE LAST WORDS OF AN ATHEIST
Following is a picture of Dad and Mom on their
wedding day.
They were married 61 years.
Dad always maintained that he did not believe there
was a person who made the universe and all of us. He was nonetheless a caring
and grateful man. He had many friends, partly because he spent a large portion
of his life helping people. It didn’t matter who they were; all that was
required to attract his desire to help was to need it. They could be wanted by
the law; they could be down and out and on the road. Or it could be someone
with much more than Dad ever had, with not a care in the world except that they
had a leaking sprinkler system, and Dad would be there to help.
Dad never went to church unless there was something
going on that he wanted to see – like one of us giving a talk or playing an
instrument – then he would go to see that.
When I was 15, he picked up a hitch-hiker, who
turned out to be about five years older than I, maybe 20. I got into the back
seat, and the hitch-hiker sat in front with Dad. His name was John, and we were
to come to be quite acquainted with him. During the ride, John said that he was
a diabetic, that he was out of insulin, and could use
five dollars to buy some – that he could die if he didn’t get it. This was
about 1955. Dad asked no questions – simply pulled out his wallet, and gave
John the five dollars, which I suppose is about like twenty now. Well, I don’t
know – a house then that was $16,000 just sold for over $200,000, so maybe that
five was about like fifty now.
Dad asked John if he had a place to stay. John said,
“No.” So our hitch-hiker came home to stay the night.
That night, while we were all sleeping, Dad looked
through John’s little suitcase. In the morning, he wanted to talk with John,
which he did in front of us all, which included Mom and my two brothers.
“John, I looked through your suitcase last night –
and found there - three full vials of insulin. Evidently you were telling the
truth about the diabetes, but what about when you told us that you were out of
insulin?”
Most likely, Dad was breaking a few laws searching
that suitcase, but he grew up on a farm, was severely pragmatic, and needed to
know more than we knew he needed to know. You see, Dad had already decided that
he wanted to offer John a home for a while. Dad had noticed that the young man
had lost his footing and needed assistance. At 15, I was the oldest boy in our
family – two younger than that – and Dad wanted to know just a little more
before putting forth such an offer to a 20 year old in our small house of only
two bedrooms.
John said, “I’m sorry I lied to you. My experience
has been that if I tell someone I have three vials of insulin and ask them for
money, I don’t get the money. Then if I really do run out, I can’t stay alive
for even a day.”
“I see,” said Dad, “John – I would have given you
the five anyway – and I want your promise that you will never lie to me again.”
John made the promise, and Dad assured him that his
privacy would not be compromised again.
I don’t know when the invitation occurred, or if it was
just allowed to continue on a day-to-day basis, but John lived with us for some
time, maybe half a year. Dad got him a job at the Old Mission Inn in
We all learned what diabetes was – had to bring John
out of insulin shock a couple times with something sugar-laden. It was amazing
how fast it worked. If he had been in sugar shock, then that would not have
worked – but it’s not particularly dangerous to give sugar – and then we would
have given insulin. I don’t remember there being a self-test kit, though that
could be something John did not do at the dinner table. If you give insulin
when the problem is insulin shock, that is very dangerous, so you always use
sugar first.
When John left, our family had two cars. Dad gave
the lesser one to John. It was the same car we had picked John up in half a
year or so earlier. We heard from John for years in letters and Christmas
cards.
Perhaps twenty years later, John’s Mother – from
John is only one example of a whole lifetime of such
as this. Dad always helped people. I could never forget the night he came home
with a whole family. It was the preacher, the preacher’s wife, and four
preacher’s kids. I have no idea how Dad made that contact. It’s not likely it
was from going to the “revival.” This
family stayed only the one night. Mom was the Christian of our two parents –
and when we sat to eat with this new preacher and his family, she asked one of
us boys to say a blessing for the food. (This was not usual for us, but we all
knew how to do it for special occasions, like Thanksgiving.) In our experience
that always meant just one person talking, but this little family was very
enthusiastic about that blessing, and I think the one of us who said the prayer
could hardly keep his thoughts straight as he spoke the words. We heard “Praise
Jesus!” and “Oh thank you, Lord!” and “Amen! Oh Amen! Thank you, Jesus!” And
this was not just the preacher – it was also his wife – and all the kids – but
especially the oldest daughter, who must have been a kind of “right-hand-man”
at revival time. We’ve laughed about it since – but you know – at the time – it
was not funny – there was no question it was a kind of spiritual experience for
us. They really were all feeling very grateful. Dad always much appreciated
gratitude – I think because it was something he always had in abundance.
In younger years, Dad had tried to go to college,
but was expelled for stealing a ping-pong table that he could not stand to see
sitting out in the weather and never used. Most likely, he would have been
giving it to someone – or perhaps painting it, repairing it, and returning it
end of term, making good use of it in the meantime. Sometimes relatively small
events determine an awful lot of the future, but who’s to say what might have
been better or worse? Most likely the changed events would have led to a very
different life, and a different wife – and I wouldn’t be writing any of this.
(I suppose Mom and I have to be glad he stole that ping-pong table.)
All of it – everything - was an amazing “miracle”
for him. He thought of evolution, the process itself, as among the greatest of
all miracles. Sometimes his gratitude would be for man’s accomplishments – the
tools – eventually the trip to the moon. All these things always had his full
attention. He was always “amazed.” He grew up in hard times – had to be taken
from his family at a young age to work, etc., eventually in the old CCC. His
memories of all that hard time seemed mostly filled with gratitude for people,
including relatives who took him in. He talked quite a lot of his older brother
– and in a particularly tender way for his baby sister, whom he loved beyond
compare.
Once, I shared a quote with Dad:
“To find everything
profound, that is an
inconvenient trait.”
-
Walter Kaufmann
And I remember that being an uncomfortable
conversation. It’s one of those things one would like to not have said. I
understood that quote, I thought, but Dad understood it differently. For him,
it took life; for me it was about efficiency of thought. But you know - I
continue to feel more and more as he felt - stopping to smell roses is not
really about efficiency.
The last seven years of life, Dad and Mom lived with
us. Dad never missed a
Dad and Mom were mostly independent during those seven
years – way over on the other side of the house at night and filling their own
needs during the days. Until Dad got cancer.
He never smoked – never chewed – but still he got a
cancer on the side of his tongue. He became quite interested in all the physics
of this, even while going through great suffering. It seemed to me, in a way,
that an atheist had an advantage – cancer as an accident of nature and
evolution, rather than something allowed by a loving God perfectly capable of
stopping it.
He had it cut out – and there was radiation therapy,
which dried up his saliva capability, but did not kill the cancer. Eventually
the doctors decided nothing else could be done unless Dad wanted almost half
his face, tongue, and neck removed for a small chance of success. Dad declined,
but even that was difficult, as he loved life so much. He said that he was not
afraid to die, but he was afraid to live badly.
He could still talk. He loved talking, so I took the
opportunity to talk a little more than usually about more important things. He
had been asked by caring members of the Mormon Church if he would like to be
administered to – a laying on of hands – using a special
oil that has been blessed - for healing. He said he didn’t have any confidence
in that, but thanks anyway. They then told him they would pray for him at
least. He said he couldn’t stop them from doing that – and that he appreciated
that they cared. (As I stated earlier, Dad went to church only for something
special – usually when one of us were functioning in some way. But during this
seven years living in our home, he had decided to attend once a month – as a
present for Mom.) I asked Dad if there was anything different about his
feelings about religion – God, etc., when he was so aware of death coming. He said no – not different. I asked if he ever feels a
belief in God. He said, “Well – what do you mean? – Some people regard the
universe as god. I do believe there is a universe.” I said I meant a personal
God, like a person. He said, “No – no god like that. I don’t believe a person
ever existed without an environment and then made the environment and all of
us.”
After not too much longer, he could not swallow at
all and had to have a feeding tube installed directly to his stomach. He poured
food into a funnel, and it went by gravity through a tube attached directly to
the middle of his torso (on his tummy.)
There was one Thanksgiving to come before he died.
The family was ready at the table, and we heard the blender going in the
kitchen. Dad had inserted turkey, mashed potatoes – all the trimming – even
some cranberry sauce - into the blender. He came to the table – fed himself through that funnel – and made remarks about how
wonderful the different items were. In great pain – no tasting at all – but he
was actually enjoying himself having memories of it all and being able to share
it once more with the family. Everyone knew Dad. No one thought any of this
particularly out of character. Dad liked attention, and he had every one of us
focused as he expressed his thanksgiving – not to God – but to all of us – and
to nature.
It was becoming ever more difficult for him to talk
– painful. We recently found a note he had left for Mom about this time.
(I CAN’T
(Mom wanted him to stay and feared his going, and
had been desiring more communication. He was
frustrated.)
Eventually, the pain and other problems became unwieldy,
and we had a new education in our home with Hospice. This is when the doctor
has decided that death is at the doorway – or if not soon, at least sure, and
the goal now becomes comfort rather than life. If one returns for services to
his doctor that have anything to do with extending
life, then Hospice service is terminated.
Dad knew he was ready to die. His fear of it
appeared very minor. He loved living, but this was just part of it all –
something he had always expected but would love to have had wait a little
longer.
Toward the end, both pain and pain medication were
at such a level that Dad was disappearing by inability to communicate. He could
make a little “Uh uh,” same for yes or no. And the
last few days not even that much.
But I remember his last words. I’ll never forget his
last words.
The Hospice lady was here – talking with us at Dad’s
bedside. We were telling her about Dad’s attitude – so positive and cooperative
with us all. She said, “You are so lucky to have a husband and a father like
him.”
Evidently, though he could not speak, his brain was
functional enough to be much bothered by what she had said, because he was
visibly disturbed – kind of moving his fingers back and forth toward a table at
the side of his bed. He could hardly lift his arm from his side.
The Hospice lady determined that he wanted his
suction device – for sucking liquid from his mouth. She put it in his hand. It
had a tube – and a plastic part about a foot long that had a bend near the end
– like we’ve all seen used at the dentist’s office, but longer and with a
handle for self-use. She had turned on the suction, but Dad didn’t need that.
He tried to lift his head a little – and began
poking himself in the chest with the device – over and over. Each time it
touched his chest, the hissing would stop, so it went hiss - - hiss - - hiss.
He didn’t have to lift his arm – just moving his hand,
the device could reach his chest.
It was the Hospice lady who figured it out. She
said, “You’re trying to say you are lucky – you are
the lucky one.”
He slumped back with the last thing that might
qualify as a smile I ever saw in him. He looked immensely satisfied. She had
nailed the message.
“I am the lucky one.”
Not long thereafter, by the time the morning came in
which he did not waken, he had said nothing more. They were his last words.
I am one of his three biological sons, but there
were many more than these – and daughters too.