CHAPTER SIX

I don't know if what I'd witnessed was a visitation or a hallucination, but what I saw from Doug in those three weeks had no resemblence to mental impairment.

It started with the move. Even though Doug was six-five, he'd spent his entire illness in a twin-size bed in the upstairs guest room. My mother'd offered her larger bedroom across the hall, but Doug didn't want her to have all those months of dark memories to return to after he was gone. Now he changed his mind. It was time to set the stage.

Week one was spent transforming Mom's room. David and I replaced her twin beds with a kingsize bed and teakwood frame and headboard that Doug sent me out to shop for. A set of comfy armchairs were brought up from the living room and positioned at the foot of the bed, for visitors.
My last assignment: find a matching teakwood desk and chair, for the wall to the right of the bed, and set it up with his Macintosh workstation, some favorite photos, and of course a kick ass stereo. The illusion was simple and effective: Doug filled the room with who he was in life.

Now he was ready for week two where he played host to several of his friends from SSL that he'd asked to come from England.

And he really played host, he had us arranging limos and tours of Washington for them. And when they came to see him, in his new fortress, his illusion worked beautifully.
I saw the faces of the people as I brought them up to Doug's room. They were bracing themselves, trying to look brave. When they came out, they were completely at ease. Every one of them said how good he looked and they believed it. They didn't see him crumple with exhaustion the minute they left.

The last week flew by. Diane arrived from California. David would come over after work. Brad was there. Everyone was in good spirits, and we were careful to give no sign of anything unusual when this or that family friend would stop by.

Doug went over the final details with us of who he wanted to be where when the time came, and that was agreed on.

There was a palpable energy building among us, which I now look back on as what's meant by "unconditional love."

You hear a term like that a lot, you think you understand it, and you do, you get the idea. But the idea isn't the experience.

As the days counted down, everyone grew so focused on everyone else's needs, there was no time for selfishness, or pain, or sorrow, or anything but love. Even death and disease vanished into the background.

Then, just like that, it was Friday night. I don't remember much about dinner, or saying goodnight to Doug or Mom. What I do remember is the odd little get-together in the living room, later that night. Brad, Diane, David, and I gathered around the green marble coffee table. We all sat down and placed our assigned prescription bottles on the table. David brought out the Hemlock handbook while Diane found a mortar and pestle in the kitchen that once-upon-a-time my mother'd used to grind fresh spices.

I hadn't had the time or the energy to work up an expectation about what this moment was going to be like. But I was still surprised by how it felt. I'm sure none of us anticipated the whole thing could seem so . . . natural. Like this is part of what families did: "time to crush up the pills for another loved one".

There wasn't any dread about it. No one was afraid of going to jail or hell. We'd all crossed those bridges long ago, without even noticing. Instead there was the strangest kind of joy at that table. We were all doing the most we could do, keeping our promises to Doug.

We're mixing a death potion for our brother, and we're feeling pretty good about it. Even laughing. Someone started quoting from the Danny Kaye movie "The Court Jester", where he's trying to remember which goblet not to drink from: "the pellet with the poison's in the vessel with the pestle, the chalice from the palace has the brew that is true."

"Nooo! The flagon with the dragon has the pellet with the poison. The vessel with the pestle is the brew that is true." Crush, crush, crush, crush. Until we'd mixed more than enough of the fine powder the handbook calls for.

We hugged and said our goodnights. Brad took the evidence - handbook, spent gelatin capsules, empty bottles and peeled labels - and scattered it piece by piece in drains and dumpsters on his way home. Dave went home to his wife. Diane went upstairs to the guest room with Hilda, and I headed for my sofa-bed in the basement.

Laying there alone, staring up into the blackness, I found the time for sadness. I knew that everybody dies. That it's part of who we all are. I'd been telling myself for months that I wasn't the only brother losing a brother, that Hilda wasn't the only mother losing a son. and that to selfishly treat mine as the only suffering in the world just meant I'd have to bear that pain alone. But at that moment, I wasn't feeling it

It's the kind of moment where I imagine strong religious convictions help a lot of people. Thanks to the Episcopal Church, organized religion never stuck with me. I remember thinking one Sunday that if Heaven was as boring as our services, eternity was sure gonna feel like it.
But this night, I felt the need for prayer. Not because I was losing faith. I had plenty of faith. My problem was, it was all generic. Without a brand-name God to call my own, who was I supposed to pray to?

And that's when it hit me. Doug's the one who's about to die. Doug follows Baba. If that's who Doug's talking to, that's who I should ask for help.

I began to pray to Baba. A simple, silent prayer.
"Baba, please help Douglas. Baba, please bring peace to this house. Baba, please help Douglas. Baba, Please bring peace to this house" Over and over, until I slept.

Back to Walking On The Moon index
Next Chapter