The Exit Visa
The Board of Trustees and the Editorial Board of The Living Pulpit mourn the passing of June Bingham Birge on August 21, 2007. This was the last article she wrote in her unique lifetime and distinguished career.
When my doctor told me I have metastasized cancer, my first reaction was, "Hey, this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be." Why not? Well, one reason is being really old, eighty-eight, as is my husband, ninety-two. Recently, we’ve been forced to take note of the fact that we absolutely have to die of something pretty soon. Another reason is that for me the prospect of being the first to sneak off rather than be the one left behind feels like a major relief. Having once been widowed (after a marriage of forty-six years) I have no desire for a second round (after a further marriage of twenty years). On the other hand, I hate to load this burden on my husband and I hope he’ll forgive me.
A third reason is that cancer is a physical, not a mental or emotional, ailment. My greatest fear has concerned the loss of mind, as with my pals with Alzheimer’s, or, even worse, the loss of lifelong personality. One warmhearted, gentle friend ended up biting her nurse the day before the Grim Reaper, mercifully, put an end to her disease’s typical tangling of the brain’s neurons.
Furthermore, even within the category of the physical, a metastasized cancer is, relatively speaking, a quickie, as against, say, the long-term crippling that can result from a bad stroke or ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease), which forces a person to drag along in radical helplessness for years, even decades.
A fourth reason is that I can retain some control over what happens to my deteriorating body, such as trying to keep it at home, with hospice care, and thus avoid any well-meant but to me unwelcome curative treatment at the hospital.
As I foresee the coming months, there will be two stages. The first is the current one in which I can function in limited fashion. For my husband and me who lived through the long years of World War II, the emotions are familiar: a poignant treasuring of each day that we can still be together and a determination to put a brave face on whatever is coming next.
The second stage is being bedridden. Although the oncologist has recommended surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy, I turned down all three. Five years ago I had abdominal surgery and it took me six months to recover. Today I do not want to lose even one week of first-stage living. As for radiation, I still suffer from its aftereffects. In regard to chemo, its side-effects would remove days from my first stage and likely saddle my already addled pate. Besides, I would lose the hair that I rely on to camouflage my chief vanity-secret, namely, the ugliness of my ears.
What I feel especially grateful for is the time that will allow "closure" with my beloved family members and friends. The process of reporting my ailment to them has been far more tiring than I had anticipated, because I am often forced into the role of comforter rather than comfortee. At the same time, it has also brought moments of unexpected closeness. I asked my oncologist why a patient like me is forced into this comforter role. He said, "People are scared to death of cancer." (I thought of adding, "Americans, especially, are also scared to death of death.") He and I agreed that many people, especially the young and middle-aged, have avoided coming to terms with their own mortality, and therefore to face the mortal illness of someone they love makes them squirm for themselves. Another doctor warned me that some people’s reluctance to face their own mortality may cause them to stop wanting to see me while I go through the dying process.
As of now, my descendants and the few friends I have told about my ailment cannot help knowing that I love them, and I, in turn, know that they love me. Yet I also feel grief for their grief, which will last so much longer than mine. I lunched with a pal who cried all through the meal, yet she also used an expression that made us both laugh: "I’m emotionally incontinent," she said.
In trying to comfort her and other recipients of my bad news, I find humor to be a blessing. In reporting to my erstwhile flower child, I mentioned that because my husband and I are now living so much in the present ("the present is our present"), she would view us as "now" people — and lend us her outgrown headbands and beads.
Our dog senses that something is awry and follows me from room to room. When I lie down, she burrows her head between my shoulder and my jaw and squeaks gently to the effect that her love is far greater than her ability to express it. My husband and I feel the same way about one another.
Some friends report that they are putting me on their prayer list. One says that my name is now in bold type. I am grateful at many levels for this attention, but I also want to hear from them what the news is in their lives. If it is bad, I can try to suggest ways of getting around it; if it is good, I can genuinely rejoice. One of the ancient saws was, "You can forgive your friends anything but their success"; but when you’re not far from death, that no longer applies. Having basically stopped being competitive, you can welcome another person’s success with whole-hearted exultation.
Not infrequently I find myself asked for advice. Sometimes I know what to say; at other times I haven’t a clue. Even while speaking, I can’t judge whether what I am dispensing is wisdom or nonsense. Yet I enjoy being questioned, and afterward may check the substance of my response with my peers. Most times they agree, and when they do not I can still amend my advice for the original questioner.
Several unexpected forms of relief have emerged. One is a dieter’s paradise: I can eat everything I want and still lose weight. My husband and I, moreover, have thrown caution to the winds and now buy 2 percent milk instead of the boring 1 percent. We also make sandwiches with white bread. Nor need I do any more shopping beyond the daily fundamentals. We are also freed from much of the hard work of decision making: most things, like taking a trip or even going into town to the theatre, are now simply impossible, so we don’t need to concern ourselves with them. I also do not need to choose and order new notepaper.
A further unexpected relief is canceling my annual check-ups with the eye doctor and the skin doctor and the ear doctor. But I have not yet reached the point mentioned by my friend who, when asked what she would do if told she had only six months to live, said, "I’d stop flossing." I still go for tooth cleaning because I like the feeling of a fresh mouth and I don’t want to be caught by a toothache during stage two. As for the uglification that may accompany that stage, my resolve is never to have a mirror near my bed. I yearn to be able to exhibit a bit of style at the end even though I can no longer follow my father’s sound advice, "Always leave while the party is good."
The main thing is to recommend hospice and convey my blessing as the party goes on.
