John's reaction to his mother's death

When Cylla told John his mother was dead, “He rejoiced.” She went on: “He clapped his hands and he grinned and he said, ‘All right!’”

What a terrible reaction. Except it wasn’t.

All his life John was told when a Christian dies, she or he goes to a better place, where there is no pain.

John had seen his father go through the process of dying. He had seen his Uncle Murray and his Aunt May unconscious in hospital beds, in that most unflattering of poses, that open-mouth, embarrassing, natural, before-death attitude that, thankfully, the dead most likely do not remember.

John had seen his mother in the same posture. During weekend visits at our house, he had watched while Cylla fed Mrs. Rodgers. He had heard his mother’s complaints and accusations when Cylla did the diaper changes.

On the way back to Texarkana after that first weekend in March, John said, “My momma’s going to die.”

“Yes, John, she is,” Cylla said. “Mother is old. People get old and they die. It will happen to me and it will happen to Bob and it will happen to you. But Mother is not dead now, and we are going to take care of her as much as we can as long as she is here.”

After a moment, John said, “They ought to just let her die.”

Among people who are as badly brain damaged as John, there is mostly a realization of now. Tomorrow is not here; yesterday is gone.

But the sense of death – as much as it is sensed – seems to bring a realization of beyond tomorrow. Or maybe not. Maybe it is only a continuance of now.

Whichever, to John the end of life is part of the road to Canaan’s land – no sad farewells, no tear-dimmed eyes, where all is joy and peace and love.