In early 1972, a former Brooklyn Dodger teammate of Captain Pee Wee Reese explained he would not attend the funeral of teammate Gil Hodges. Nor did he attend the funeral of legendary Jackie Robinson six months later. The man told Pee Wee he wanted to remember the men as they had been in life.
His memories of Jackie Robinson would would be those of the lion, a player feared and respected by all; a man with the courage of ten, saddled with carrying a n entire race; who literally unnerved opponents by his presence on base; who could single-handedly win games any number of ways; who said a life is worth living only if devoted to serving others; who ranks among greatest Americans.
His memories of Gil Hodges would remain those of a gentle giant; the strongest man in baseball who used that strength to break up fights, not start or win them as he easily could; who would calmly walk away from the plate having been called out on a bad call, his teammates raging, place his helmet and bat down and sit calmly on the bench as if nothing happened; a man so secure and serene in his faith nothing ever seemed to bother him; a player so revered by fans everywhere he was never booed.
My father was a great 3-sport college athlete; a leader of people in World War II and his various education jobs; a star in any gathering; a man who shot his age on a golf course late in life; a devoted fisherman; a devoted husband of 5l years; family man who raised three children that all went to college; the best man I’ve ever known. He died from a heart attack driving himself and Mom to the hospital for tests. I did view his body in a Florida funeral home. His three children delivered memorable speeches in his honor. My memories of him are those of a life lived with vigor, participation, and great success.
My Mother was one of the toughest human beings I’ve ever known. She survived losing her mother in very early childhood; losing her father in her twenties; theGreat Depression; living as a single World War II parent; losing his first child at birth; gave birth to three children, the last a difficult birth; breast cancer; losing her soul-mate; and Parkinson’s Disease. Through it all, she maintained her dignity; taught her three kids nothing but love – best illustrated by the “Betty Principle” – the kid who cut the cake got the last piece; stretched out Dad’s early meager earnings; was a great cook; ran an efficient home. My memories of Mom are colored by her demise from Parkinson’s. The last time I saw her, she was struggling along with a walker – refusing to quit, her head tilted to one side. She had earlier said: “old age isn’t for sissies,” and proved it. After she broke her hip trying to use the bathroom by herself, we could no longer talk to her on the phone.
Memories of Mom’s step-mom are colored by the last time we saw her, waving at us through the window of the hospital where she was dying from cancer. I remember her white hair and smile. Lost to me is the life of vigor she led. She traveled to places I’ve never visited. We visited her many times at her elegant giant white house on the hill with the hidden circular staircase, across the road from Fredies farm. Grandma “Dano” still had an icebox, serviced a couple of times weekly. My mind’s eye has her in that hospital window.
Memories of my favorite aunt, Georgia, are colored by the last time I saw her, in a hospital bed, trying to defeat cancer. She lost. I didn’t get to attend her funeral because of a business commitment. Georgia had run an elegant ladies fashion store for about 30 years; she made annual Paris trips to bring back special clothing. My wife bought her wedding gown from Georgia. We once asked her, then in her 70s, why didn’t she retire? She looked at us and said: “What would I do?” End of discussion. Georgia traveled to places other women didn’t. She, was a star of every gathering, by force of her free and only partially repressed spirit. Yet, for all this, my memories remain of her in the hospital bed, vulnerable and largely helpless – which the real Georgia never was.
My memories of Grandma Hilda are colored by the last time I saw her, lying on her side, curled up in a fetal position, saying over and over: “I want to die, I want to die, I want to die.” That poor, small, weak, helpless person lying there wasn’t the real Hilda. The real Hilda made trips downtown on the bus; planned something different to do each day; regularly visited “the old people” in the same Home earlier in her 70s-80s. The real Hilda cooked huge Thanksgiving and Christmas feasts; went fishing with Grandpa; to the Wisconsin cabin; served at church.
Our family had a wonder dog, Rex, a purebred Samoyed, the white haired emperor of HIS back yard. No adult, other than the trusted milk man [they had a thing going] was ever allowed into the hallowed space without immediate loud, and ferocious challenge from a fang-showing, wild-eyed white monster lunging at his chain – which sometimes broke. They were driven to hasty retreat, to meekly ring the front door bell. The same fate, with teethmarks, awaited any dog foolishly invading the kingdom. Size didn’t matter – they all lost, retreated in defeat, never to be seen again.
Little kids, on the other hand, were free to climb all over Rex, pull his long hairs, pull his tail, and otherwise molest his tolerant form. They had a free pass – to a point, which when exceeded, Rex would get up, shake himself free, and walk away.
Rex went swimming with us, got ice cream, and always – demanded the price of exit from the back door – a medium sized Milk Bone. We were “trained” to provide this tribute. If we forgot, he demanded to know why – loudly. Rex hated thunderstorms, the 4th of July and the State Fair fireworks. On those days he would seek refuge in his house and cry. Sometimes we brought him into the back porch with us to comfort him. On one such night, Rex was sitting on the porch, when a huge thunderbolt crashed nearby. Rex jumped up, ran into the living room, jumped onto the couch, right between my sister and brother – and looked at us with – “What do you mean, I can’t sit here? Why not?”
In the mid-1960s, it became apparent Rex was aging. He was getting weaker, having trouble with his stools, and one could sneak up behind him from the rear. Life was becoming a struggle. In 1966, after Rex’s 15th birthday, while I was away on a Canadian fishing trip, Dad took Rex to the vet’s, and had him put to sleep. WhenI came back, Rex was gone. In my mind, the white emperor still rules our back yard; still prances royally; still a wild free spirit, who pulled my 200 pound Dad down the street; the dog who stamped his feet, demanding his Milk Bone tribute – every time, no excuses; the dog who loved everybody except foreign adults and dogs – a memory that will never die.
A QUESTION: – why did we, in an act of mercy, decide Rex, a beloved family member, DESERVED to have his suffering end, that it was cruel to make him continue living. We all loved him, we wanted him to live another 15 years. Life wasn’t the same without him patrolling the empire.
On the other hand – why did we, decide that Hilda, a beloved Grandma, did not deserve to die? She would be compelled to live, and suffer. We ignored her stated wish to die.
Some would say, “But, he’s only a dog. She was a person. She had more rights.” Rex was NEVER “only a dog.” He was a dog by genetics. He probably got more hugs and attention than all of us combined – every day.
Because Hilda “had more rights,” she was expected to suffer. There would be no mercy for her. She had to live by the expectations of others, to the demands of “civilized society.” The memories of her life of vigor, her service to others, her arguing with Bert over cards, her shrieks of laughter. She would not die on her terms, but on others.
In the end – only Rex died with real dignity. Mom, Dano, Georgia, Hilda – they were all compelled to suffer. They had been people of great strength and dignity. They were not allowed to die that way.
Why can’t. YOU. decide terms on how. YOUR. life will end? Why should “the state” decide. YOUR life-ending terms? OR – need we look behind “the state?” What forces/groups put THEIR terms into law on how YOU. die?
In 1641, the Massachusetts legal code’s top three capital offenses were: idolatry, witchcraft, blasphemy. The code was based on “Exodus, Leviticus, and Deuteronomy>” The infamous 1692 Salem witchcraft trials were mostly prosecuted by ministers.
Since l973, religious war has been waged upon the American public by fundamentalist zealots, demanding THEIR interpretation of the Christian Bible be imposed on YOUo.
One aspect is refusal to honor people’s living wills/health care directives. Read Katherine Stewart’s “The Power Worshippers,” chapter 11 – “Controlling Bodies: What “Religious Liberty” Looks Like From the Stretcher.” Several women victimized by being patients in the wrong hospital. An elderly man dying from brain cancer. He repeatedly asked for information on medically assisted death, legal in his state.
He was repeatedly denied information. The reason: health care directive 61 of those running his hospice: “Patients experiencing suffering that cannot be alleviated should be helped to appreciate the Christian understanding of redemptive suffering.”
A religious group decided the man MUST endure “redemptive suffering.” He would not die on his terms, but theirs. But – “Somehow, John managed to get a gun into the hospice. On the last day of his life, he climbed into a bathtub, put the barrel into his mouth, and shot himself to death.”
Amendment One: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof..” The background, THE. CONTEXT, for this statement is in 1776-99 state constitutions. Look them up.
From Edwin S. Gaustad’s “Faith of the Founders Religion and the New Nation, 1776-1826,” pages 133-145, relevant parts for this discussion: Delaware, 1776, Article 29: “There shall be no establishment of any one religious sect in this state in preference to another..”; Kentucky, 1791, Article XII, Section 3: “..that no human authority can in any case whatever control or interfere with the rights of conscience..”; North Carolina, 1776, Articles XXXIV: “..neither shall any person, on any pretense whatsoever, be compelled to attend any place of worship contrary to his own faith or judgment..”; Pennsylvania, 1776, Declaration of Rights, II: “That all men have a natural and unalienable right to worship Almighty God according to the dictates of their own consciences..”
If YOU. can’t control what happens to. YOUR. body, “according to the dictates of [YOUR] conscience” YOU have NO. RIGHTS.
If “the state,” pressured by certain fundamentalist churches, controls how. YOU die – then America has regressed back to the 1641 Massachusetts legal code, based on three books from a Christian Bible.
Amendment One was written – as per. the. CONTEXT. above – to prevent this. “no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof..” MEANS; a church. YOU. don’t attend cannot tell. YOU on what terms YOU. WILL. DIE. That’s exactly what happened to John – in a state he was legally entitled to find means of death “according to [his] own conscience..”
Do. YOU “need”. “redemptive suffering?” Or – have YOU. the constitutional right to dignity in your death, like our family’s beloved dog? WHO. gets to decide for. YOU?
Thanks to the ethically challenged Roberts Supreme Court – America is on the verge of becoming, birth to death, a theocracy – enforced by “the established church” of far right zealots. Executions for witchcraft might soon occur.
Dante Alighieri: “The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.” His message to YOU: act, or lose YOUR. rights to decide the terms of YOUR life, and death.
With Justice For All 