Posted by XXXXXX on July 28, 2008:

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED Dear Gentleman George, Death hangs in the air on September 11, 2001. I drive us to our new four-story townhouse in McLean, Virginia, twenty miles from the Pentagon. This morning, terrorists have flown airplanes into the Pentagon and the World Trade Center in New York City, killing thousands of innocent people. Although you hold the hand railing tightly, you walk in the front door with a faint smile and little assistance. After we walk around the first and second floors, I hear you sigh and your face turns gray. You take my arm and say, “Where’s our elevator? Let’s explore the other floors.” You comment on the sparkling chandelier giving off soft light in the elevator, the hardwood floor, and the matching stained walls. You begin to explain to me how the elevator works on a hydraulic system. However, I see your legs begin to tremble. Quickly you grasp the side rails. “When I die and leave this house, I want to ride down in this elevator standing tall. A fighter pilot doesn’t want to leave his loved ones and his world feet first. I want to complete my mission with dignity. I want to go out of this house the way I came in, standing on my feet. Do you think you can manage that, Phyllis?” Is he serious? “Yes.” I say it so quickly, with no idea of how I will manage or what it is that I am supposed to manage. “I can do it, and furthermore, I will.” _____________________ On March 20th, 2003 at 3:15 am, you die peacefully at home after you talk to me while I hold your hand. I have no energy to move. I sit by your side and revisit some of the memories we built during these last three years. The ceiling fan whirls above my head. The only sound I hear is the heater when it recycles. Life has left the house. I feel chilled and run the bath water especially hot. I crave all the bubbles and sweet scents of lavender. I sink into the tub and weep. Suddenly, I remember that we have seven dear friends coming to lunch at noon. Do I cancel or have them come anyway? I know what you would do. You would not cancel. I decide that their company would be comforting to me and to them. In a daze, I realize that I have to call the Hospice nurse to come and officially pronounce you dead. After the nurse examines you, we review the necessary Hospice protocol for discharging you from their services and the legal issues of declaring you dead, signing papers, discarding down the toilet your unused narcotic and other medicines, and selecting a pick up service to transport your body to the funeral home in Arlington, Virginia. I thank the nurse for all the services that Hospice so graciously provided us for over a year. You and I have said on many occasions “Hospice people are true angels of life, not angels of death.” You are dead and will be leaving the house for good. I will be alone. I wait another hour and call the transport service to take you to the funeral home. On the telephone I instruct the drivers to back their vehicle into our garage which I will leave open, for them to close. This way the neighbors would not be disturbed with vehicles doing strange things during the night. I know you would want me to do this. You enjoy the neighbors so very much. You visited with them yesterday. In the meantime, I call Dianne and Harvey who arrive shortly before the transport drivers. The drivers pull their SUV into my garage, and close the garage door. I note the senior driver, who wears glasses, doesn’t resemble anything I remember about funeral drivers. He wears a wind breaker jacket, and a lack-luster shirt. The younger driver is in non descript casual clothes, and he appears to be a trainee because he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself or his hands, which remain in his pockets during most of their visit. He is clearly very sleepy. I say to the drivers, “Hello, I am Phyllis Langton and these are my friends Dianne and Harvey Kammerer.” I stretch out my right hand to shake theirs. They introduce themselves, and offer weak, limp handshakes. You used to comment on people’s handshakes, especially men’s, and your comments weren’t always nice. But I have only one mission on my mind and that is to meet the promise I have made to you. I’m going to be sure you ride down the elevator standing tall. After telling them where George’s body is to be taken, the senior driver asks “Would you please take us to Mr. Thomas and tell us the best way to carry him out?” I imagine all kinds of thoughts are going through his head like: how much does Dr. Thomas weigh (they are not robust men); will he fit on the little stretcher we have brought; what floor is he on (hopefully not on the fourth); and how much work is it going to be to get him into the SUV? “Yes,” I answer. “He’s on the third floor. We’ve an elevator and I’d like him brought down in the elevator. My husband wants to ride in the elevator one more time, standing up.” They stare at me with wide open eyes and blank faces. He wants to do what? I wait but they say nothing. So I tell them my plan. I ask them to wrap you securely so you can stand in the elevator leaning against the wall with my arms wrapped around you to keep you from falling. They are to put ties around your waist and secure these to the elevator wall railings. I ask them to leave your face uncovered so that I can see you and talk with you during your last ride out of the house, and our last ride together in our physical bodies. The senior driver’s pale face begins to show some strain. He appears to be middle-aged but doesn’t look in much better health than you. He now has his hands in his pockets and begins to shift his feet back and forth. He says tentatively, “Mrs. Langton, we can’t do that. It is too dangerous. He might fall.” I want to say to him, So what if he falls. He’s dead. He can’t hurt himself. What are you worried about? So instead I say, “I’ll wrap him myself.” “No, no that won’t work. We just haven’t been asked to do this before, and we don’t know quite how to do what you are asking.” “Maybe we can work together,” I say. “He won’t fall if we wrap him carefully and then tie him to the handrail. Besides, I will be holding him during the entire ride. So what’s the problem? I don’t think you understand how important it was to my husband, who was a test pilot and fighter pilot in three wars, to accomplish his mission of leaving the house standing tall on his feet, instead of leaving feet first.” They nod what seems to me to be agreement. We will work together. Slowly we begin to prepare you for your ride. We reinforce the wrapping around you so that it will be firm enough to support you. We finish our work and walk you to the elevator. The men lift you to your feet and hold you steady with their arms securely around you. When you are standing and secure in the elevator, I ask Dianne and Harvey to escort the drivers to the first level where we will meet them. I close the elevator door. So that I can have more time with you than it takes to travel three floors, I do not push the button to start the elevator. You told me when we first moved in how the elevator light is timed to go off in about 3 seconds if the elevator doesn’t move. So I switch the light to “on” so we can talk awhile with the lights on before we begin your last ride to the bottom floor, standing tall. My own feelings are fuzzy at this point since I am so mentally and physically exhausted, and I am focused on keeping my promise to you for your last ride. We are surrounded by your favorite pictures. I remember talking and reminiscing with you about many pictures which I keep on the elevator walls so you can enjoy them during your daily rides. There are many of our Ireland trip when I surprised you for your 73rd birthday. You had no idea where we are going until we stood in line at Air Lingus Airline in Boston, and I handed you your ticket and you said, “But, Phyllis, I have appointments.” “I know,” I say, “I cancelled them.” And the funny pictures of our daughter’s wedding. When you were walking her down the aisle you had difficulty keeping her from running. She was so nervous. When you arrived at the railing, you told Bishop Eastman, “Hurry up and marry them before she gets away and runs out of the church.” Pictures of two of our darling granddaughters, Claire and Lorna, playing soccer, are close by your face. “Coach Edward”, their father, arranged a special game in your honor after the May 2001 season is over. We drove to Nashville for the game and tears were in your eyes as 5 year old Claire made five goals against the boys: 6-2 the game score. And Claire was so excited and proud of herself and you, she ran into you at full speed to hug you, after the game. She grabbed your legs, and you both fell over, laughing all the way to the ground. And, look at Lorna, almost two years old at the game. She got into the game by chasing the ball after it left the field with her box of animal crackers waving on her arm, plus a back end full of diapers. She wouldn’t give them the ball back to finish the game. Here is a picture of you checking out your airplane in Viet Nam where you were a squadron commander and fighter pilot during the war. I also have one of you in World War II in the Army Air Corp and you as a fighter pilot in Korea. You look tender as though you are touching a baby’s bottom when you touch your airplanes, so gently and with such reverence. These planes brought you home after some terrifying, but successful missions. One of my favorite pictures is of you and me at the Army Navy Country Club in Arlington, Virginia in 1991. You had just assumed the presidency of your West Point alumni class of 1948. You looked so dapper in your Brooks Brothers silk jacket, with dark grey slacks and highly polished black shoes and black socks. You were happy and proud to be class president to work with your classmates. You used to say “…the best thing I got out of West Point was my classmates.” Then you would look at me with those devilish blue eyes and add, “And, of course, their wives.” These pictures break my heart. We have shared our life; we have shared your death as you trusted me unconditionally to make this journey with you. You gave me the gift of caring for you until you took your last breath, and I reassured you that you were ‘home’, a true story of “till death do us part.” But now you are in a distant place where I can no longer reach you. As we approach the ground floor, I can see the weariness fade from your face. You are completing your mission to stand with dignity and leave your home the way you came in. I did not close your eyes when you died and to me your eyes are sparkling and you have a smile on your face. As the elevator door opens on the ground floor, your blue eyes still twinkle at me, and I will always remember you that way. As the SUV bearing your body pulls out of the driveway, I remember a poem I read a few weeks ago by Emily Dickinson, “To live with constant weariness takes forever; to die, takes just a little while. It’s only fainter by degrees and then it’s out of sight.” “Goodbye, sweetie. Rest your arms in peace, my love.” Your loving wife, Phyllis. Copyright 2007 Phyllis Langton, PhD Published in Illness & Grace: Terror & Transformation, an Anthology, edited by Heather Tosteson & Charles D. Brockett. 2007: p. 132-136.

admin