monday 17.04
This afternoon I met with Claudia from Parker College of Medicine, having donated my body to her, her school, her service as a mortician now trained to preserving cadavers for medical study. I met with her alone and she was not what I expected to be greeting me and I was not what she expected to be greeted by. I filled out the paperwork and joked as she watched and looked at my, wanting to laugh, but almost asking for a silent approval to do so, and I gave it.
I probed deep into her thought process to learn more about the program, my pre-chosen fate and her. And what I did not realize, but came to respect, she was seeing me as a soul, a person and not a piece of future medical science. This thought troubling, caused me to ask and receive answers to questions that I had not planned to ask, but wanted and more importantly, needed answers to. Some where pressing and others where hysterical, just me trying to put death in perspective. I learned I would become a number as Eric would no longer exist, to the students who might name me I gave suggestions: I did not want to be a Tom by a Thomas, not a Jeff but a Jeffrey, not a Steve but a Stephen and not a Joe or Joey, a Joseph. We laughed, and she glanced once toward my eyes and I saw the tears and she, the tears and she looked away and stretched. I wanted to know what every man wanted to know, why my penis was not 11.5 inches in length, realizing I could not know. I would be dead.
I wanted to know what my number would be and she could not give me one. I would receive one when I was dead.
And in thought and as we conversed I knew the next time she saw me, I would be a shell. I would be dead.
But to her, a different shell as she now had a face and a voice and a thought to remember. And she promised to care of my shell and acknowledge the pain and hurt so many were feeling as they watched my illness progress and she, as only she could, hugged me.
And I held her tight and listened as she cried, my father watching from his chair, his mainstay and I whispered in her ear, 'it is time to go my chief. And call me the warrior. I am the warrior and you, a warrior chief. It will all be okay, the plan is divine and I am a part of it and I just am.' She left without the proper greeting of farewell. It simply no longer fit. In that hour, I had affected her and she had affected me and only she, through her soul, could help my piece complete and the answers to the questions, remain and linger and not to be answered.
No body viewing, records sealed.
I told her I will watch and hope, only hope, that my wish to be the warrior is literal and the piece of paper she wrote it on, explained to her colleagues with pride and conviction, and a piece completed.
I probed deep into her thought process to learn more about the program, my pre-chosen fate and her. And what I did not realize, but came to respect, she was seeing me as a soul, a person and not a piece of future medical science. This thought troubling, caused me to ask and receive answers to questions that I had not planned to ask, but wanted and more importantly, needed answers to. Some where pressing and others where hysterical, just me trying to put death in perspective. I learned I would become a number as Eric would no longer exist, to the students who might name me I gave suggestions: I did not want to be a Tom by a Thomas, not a Jeff but a Jeffrey, not a Steve but a Stephen and not a Joe or Joey, a Joseph. We laughed, and she glanced once toward my eyes and I saw the tears and she, the tears and she looked away and stretched. I wanted to know what every man wanted to know, why my penis was not 11.5 inches in length, realizing I could not know. I would be dead.
I wanted to know what my number would be and she could not give me one. I would receive one when I was dead.
And in thought and as we conversed I knew the next time she saw me, I would be a shell. I would be dead.
But to her, a different shell as she now had a face and a voice and a thought to remember. And she promised to care of my shell and acknowledge the pain and hurt so many were feeling as they watched my illness progress and she, as only she could, hugged me.
And I held her tight and listened as she cried, my father watching from his chair, his mainstay and I whispered in her ear, 'it is time to go my chief. And call me the warrior. I am the warrior and you, a warrior chief. It will all be okay, the plan is divine and I am a part of it and I just am.' She left without the proper greeting of farewell. It simply no longer fit. In that hour, I had affected her and she had affected me and only she, through her soul, could help my piece complete and the answers to the questions, remain and linger and not to be answered.
No body viewing, records sealed.
I told her I will watch and hope, only hope, that my wish to be the warrior is literal and the piece of paper she wrote it on, explained to her colleagues with pride and conviction, and a piece completed.
posted by the warrior at 11:22 AM
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