All the old folks loved him because he played the music of their lives --- mostly from the thirties and forties with a little fifties mixed in.
It was music you could really dance to and these old folks knew how to dance.
The band consisted of Ed on the tenor sax, a lady on keyboard and another old guy on drums. All together, they were probably two hundred and fifty years old --- but they could really belt it out.
Throughout the evening, we did the foxtrot to Cab Driver and New York, New York. We twirled to the Tennessee Waltz. We did the cha-cha to Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White and the west coast swing to Honky-Tonk.
Halfway through the dance, Ed announced, “OK everybody! It’s time for a fuuuuun mixer!”
About two-thirds of the dancers left their chairs. The guys lined up on one side of the room and the ladies on the other.
These were the singles, seniors without partners. At this age, those whose partners had passed on far exceeded those who were still together.
I took Maggie’s hand and held it tight.
I had been alone for many years, but now that she was in my life, I don’t know what I would do without her.
The couples paired up and danced until Ed blew the whistle at which time they changed partners.
I knew for sure I never wanted to change partners again.
The dance-a-thon was scheduled for nine o’clock.
Dad, Bernice and the other contestants gathered on the floor.
The rules were that Ed would play continuously until the last couple was left standing.
Lots of dancers started the contest, but at seventy and older, the crowd had dwindled after a half hour.
An hour into the dance, only three couples remained.
When it was all over, Dad and Bernice proudly donned the crowns as king and queen.
It had been a good evening.
I was a proud son and it only cost me eighty-seven dollars.
CHAPTER 6
It had been several days since Ox and I submitted our Dr. Death data to the captain.
Every morning, I expected him to call us in his office and share the news that our hard work had produced some valuable leads, but days passed and the call never came.
We had resumed our regular patrol and our shift was filled with the usual traffic stops, domestic disturbance calls and the occasional flasher.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it was the job, and frankly, after my latest near-death experience, I welcomed the break.
Maggie and I were in our jammies and were about to settle in for an evening of TV when there was a knock on the door.
I opened the door and found myself staring into the solemn faces of my five tenants.
My first thought was that one of them had organized a protest group against the landlord, but I didn’t remember hearing any recent grumbling.
Dad spoke first. “Hey, Sonny. Can we come in?”
I looked at Maggie who had slipped on a robe. She just shrugged her shoulders.
“Uhhh --- sure. Come on in.”
We hustled up some chairs and sat in a circle like Indians having a pow-wow.
“OK,” I said. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“We wanted to talk to you about these,” Dad said, handing me a stack of papers.
“What are they?”
“These are our Advance Health Care Directives,” Dad said. “We were all really bummed out after touring the acute care facility the other night.
“And after the scare that Bernice gave us --- well --- none of us wanted to wind up like those poor folks in the wheelchairs, so we decided we should do something about it.”
A couple of months ago, Bernice had passed out in her apartment and was rushed to the hospital.
Thankfully, it was nothing serious, but it certainly was a reality check for us all.
“Where did you come up with these? Did you hire an attorney?”
“Heck, no,” Jerry said. “We made a visit to the Three Trails. Mary’s pretty tight with that Wingate fellow --- you know --- the computer geek.
“He had a program on his laptop called 'Family Lawyer.' He printed them out for us.”
Oh great! I thought. End-of-life legal decisions coming from the Three Trails Hotel. What could possibly go wrong with that?
I looked at the documents and noted that all of them had designated me as the agent to make their health-care decisions.
Then I read the box that all of them had checked.
I do not want my life to be prolonged, nor do I wish to be provided artificial hydration or nutrition if (i) I have an incurable and irreversible condition that will result in my death within a relatively short time, (ii) I become unconscious and, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, I will not regain consciousness, or (iii) the likely risks and burdens of treatment would outweigh the expected benefits.
I stared at the document in disbelief.
“I can’t do this!” I said. “I couldn’t ‘pull the plug’ on people I love! Who am I to make life and death decisions?”
“But we don’t want to be vegetables!” Bernice said with conviction.
Jerry, of course, couldn’t let that one pass.
“If you were a vegetable, have you ever thought about what you would be?
“Pastor Bob, for instance. He would be lettuce because he’s always saying, “Lettuce pray.”
“I got one!” Dad said. “Bernice is one hot tomato.”
Bernice giggled and punched him in the arm.
“Then the Professor chimed in. “That’s not exactly correct. Technically, the tomato is classified as a fruit.”
“That works too,” Jerry said. “Take Willie there. If he were a fruit he’d be a blackberry. BLACK-berry. Get it?”
“An’ if you keep dat up, funny man,” Willie retorted, “you gonna be a SQUASH!”
I couldn’t believe how quickly the conversation had deteriorated.
“Let’s get back to the question at hand,” I said. “Have you all really thought this through?
“By signing these documents, you are agreeing to end your life. It’s like a suicide pact.”
“Well, not really,” Dad said. “To me, suicide is when you take your own life. In this case you’re going to do it for us.”
“Oh, now I feel a whole lot better. Instead of you committing suicide, I get to be a murderer.”
“Yeah,” Jerry said, “that suicide thing can be pretty tricky.
“I heard about an old lady who had an incurable disease. She decided to end it all by shooting herself through the heart. Not wanting to make a mistake, she phoned her doctor and asked him the exact location of her heart.
“He told her that the heart was located exactly two inches below the left nipple.
“The old woman hung up the phone, took careful aim and shot herself in the left knee.”
“You’re a jerk!” Bernice retorted.
“Seriously, Walt,” the Professor said, “these Health-Care Directives and Do-Not Resuscitate instructions are standard forms and quite commonly used.
“It’s a ‘quality-of-life’ decision. Think of your own situation. If you were bedridden and unconscious and the only thing keeping you alive were tubes and respirators, would you want to live like that?”
I had to admit that I wouldn’t.
“Actually,” the Professor said, “the ideal way to go would be like the opening scene in Soylent Green.”
“Wot’s soylent green?” Willie asked.
“Soylent Green was the 1973 sci-fi movie staring Charlton Heston.
“The setting was a futuristic society that permitted people to make end-of-life decisions on their own terms.
“I loved the scene where an old man was being taken into a beautiful room. He was relaxed in a comfortable bed in front of a huge movie screen. Pictures of mountain ranges, sunsets, rainbows and beaches played on the panoramic screen while soft, comforting music filled the air.
“When it
was time, a sedative was administered and then the drug that peacefully put him to sleep.”
My mind filled with images of Roger Beckham and Arthur Manning.
“It sounds beautiful,” Dad said. “What was so ‘sci-fi’ about it?”
“It’s what they did with the body after he was gone,” the Professor said. “There was a food shortage and bodies of the deceased were ground up to make food --- hence, the Soylent Green.”
“I guess there’s more than one way to become a vegetable.” Jerry said.
“You’re just gross!” Bernice said, wrinkling her nose.
I looked at the documents again.
There was another paragraph that authorized the harvesting of organs of the deceased.
I mentioned that everyone had checked the ‘yes’ box except Willie.
“By de time I go, ain’t nobody gonna want none o’ my parts ‘cause I will have done worn ‘em out --- all except one, of course --- an’ I don’t think dey do no transplants wit dat thing.”
“From what I hear,” Dad said, “that ‘thing’ ought to be donated to a museum somewhere. It’s a legend.”
“Or maybe you could will it to Emma,” Bernice said. “She might want it as a keepsake.”
I could tell by the look on Willie’s face that he was proud to be the stuff of legends.
“I’ve never been an organ donor before,” Jerry said, “but I once gave an old piano to the Salvation Army.”
I could see that our discussion was going nowhere, so I suggested that we call it an evening.
“I’ll hang on to these for you,” I said. “If any of you have second thoughts, please let me know.”
When everyone was gone, I turned to Maggie.
“So what’s your take on all that?” I asked.
“Actually, I’ve thought about it myself. I know lots of people who have DNR’s and Living Wills.
“When I was single, I really didn’t have anyone to make those decisions for me, but now that I have you --- maybe we should consider it.”
“I get what everyone is saying. In those circumstances, it would make sense not to prolong the inevitable, but there’s a problem I’m struggling with.
“Let’s look at this again.”
I reread the health care directive.
“What this is saying is that if I have an incurable disease that will lead to my death, I don’t want to live and I’m giving the designated agent the authority to end my life.
“HOW IS THIS DIFFERENT FROM WHAT DR. DEATH IS DOING?”
Maggie just shrugged her shoulders.
“If I pull the plug on Dad or Bernice, I’m just an agent doing my job, but Dr. Death is a murderer.
“I don’t get it. There’s no justice here!”
“I wish I could help you, Walt, but I don’t understand the distinction either.”
I knew I wouldn’t sleep and misery loves company, so I decided to give Pastor Bob a call.
While I’m not a card-carrying member of any church, Pastor Bob is my designated clergyman.
I met him several years ago.
He had just walked away from a huge mainline Protestant Church because they were pressuring him to preach their political agenda from the pulpit.
When he left, more than half of the congregation followed him.
On the day he walked into my real estate office, he was a shepherd with a flock, but no church building.
I found him a home in an abandoned chapel on Linwood Boulevard and he and his followers have prospered.
What he didn’t realize at the time was that he was going to inherit a goofy old ex-realtor who wanted to be a cop.
On more than one occasion, my escapades in law enforcement have left me broken, depressed and doubting.
It was Pastor Bob who helped pull me through those trying times.
I made the call.
“Good evening,” came the voice. “This is dial-a-prayer. For a mere thirty pieces of silver, your supplications will be forwarded to the Almighty.”
“Oh, sorry. I must have the wrong number.”
“Relax, Walt. This is Pastor Bob. I saw your name on the caller ID and thought I’d give you a hard time.”
“Are you like this with all your parishioners?”
“No, I make an exception for you.”
“I know it’s late ---.”
“Walt, it always is late when you call. I wouldn’t expect anything different. Come on over.”
Pastor Bob met me at the sanctuary door and led me into his office.
“So what is the current moral dilemma upon whose horns you are currently impaled?”
“How long did it take you to put that together?” I asked.
“Oh, I worked it up while you were driving over here. Pretty clever, don’t you think?”
“Well, I actually do have something I’m struggling with.”
“Walt, you’re like the little boy who’s constantly asking his daddy questions like, ‘Where does air come from?’ or ‘How long is forever?’
“What’s today’s topic?”
“Euthanasia.”
“Ahhh, yes. And you’ve come here expecting me to tell you whether it’s right or wrong, a sin or not a sin. Am I right?”
“Well, sort of. I’m interested in your perspective from a religious standpoint.”
“I wish it were that easy.
“Many people, especially people of fundamentalist faiths have a strict interpretation of right and wrong. It’s either black or it’s white.
“My position, however, is that life is not that clear-cut. There is some black and some white, but there are also a million shades of gray in between.”
“I did some reading on the subject,” I said, “and it seems that virtually every mainstream religion of the world, from Christianity to Judaism to Islam all condemn euthanasia.”
“That’s true. It is based in the idea that one’s life is the property of God and a gift to the world and to destroy that life is to wrongly assert dominion over what is God’s.”
“So it’s OK for any guy with a dick to create life and bring it into the world with impunity, but to bring it to an end when all hope is gone is murder.”
“It is an interesting dichotomy, isn’t it?”
“I suppose ‘Thou shalt not kill’ is also involved.”
“It is, but it’s a very weak argument. There are so many shades of gray there that it’s ridiculous --- even in the Bible.”
“How so?”
“You quoted a scripture from the Ten Commandments. There are dozens of others that are used to condemn killing of any kind.
“In fact, the Bible is full of stories of people smiting one another in the name of the Lord.
“Take David. He slays Goliath and becomes the leader of an army that slays thousands --- and that’s all OK.
“Later, he sends Uriah the Hittite into battle knowing he will be killed because he wants to do the nasty with Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba.”
“I’m guessing that didn’t go over too well with the Big Guy?”
“No, it didn’t. But that’s not the point.
“In both instances, it was the same act --- killing --- but it was the circumstances that dictated whether it was right or wrong.
“We have been sending our young men and women into battle since the beginning of time. Their task is to kill the enemy and we welcome them home as heroes.
“Islam is very outspoken condemning suicide, and every week we hear of Muslims blowing up restaurants with bombs strapped to their bodies --- The Jihad, or Holy War.
“Let’s bring it a little closer to home,” he said. “If I remember correctly, Mary Murphy bashed in the skull of a man that was about to waste you and Maggie.
“Sin or no sin? You tell me.
“What man, if faced with the decision of taking a life, would not pull the trigger if it meant saving a loved one?
“Sin or no sin? You tell me.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,�
�� I replied. “I totally understand that circumstances can alter truths, but if that’s the case, why is there so much opposition to euthanasia? It’s legal in only five states.”
“Besides the religious component,” he replied, “the biggest argument against euthanasia is the 'slippery slope.' "
“What in the world is that?”
“It’s the notion that if euthanasia becomes widely accepted, it will lead to abuse. It will be used for purposes other than those for which it was intended.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a greedy child prematurely putting away an ailing parent to speed up an inheritance or a spouse putting his partner down because he or she has found greener pastures --- remember David and Bathsheba?”
I was about to protest when I remembered how Lawrence Wingate’s wife got power-of-attorney and cleaned out poor Lawrence while he was getting a heart by-pass.
“And then there’s the folks who aren’t dying, but are so deep in depression that they wish they could. There are certainly a lot of possibilities for abuse of the system.”
“But that argument has holes too,” I said. “It’s like the old saying, 'Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.' "
I was getting fired up. “Automobiles kill more people every year than almost anything else. Yet, we still have guns and we still have cars and we have laws that punish people who don’t use them properly.
“If we can do that with guns and cars, why not euthanasia?”
He just shrugged, “You tell me.
“Things evolve over time. Ninety years ago, alcohol was illegal and prohibition was the law.
“The fact that it is not against the law now doesn’t excuse the moon shiners and gin runners back then.”
“But it’s just not fair,” I protested.
“Maybe one day it will be legal, but right now, it is what it is.
“Walt, if you will recall, the last time we had one of these little chats, we talked about free will.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“We all have choices to make every day.
“It would be so much easier if there were iron-clad rules that told you what choices to make in every situation, but there just aren’t.
[Lady Justice 06] - Lady Justice and Dr. Death Page 4
