Strangers
I visited Charles Clayton Perry today for what was to be a brief stay, lasting less than sixty seconds.
Upon entering the extended care facility, I found his room empty. I asked the attendant in the hallway if she knew where Dr. Perry might be.
"Oh, you mean Charlie? There he is coming down the hall."
Indeed, he was shuffling down the hall with his walker. As I approached with a salutation, he glared at me.
"Who are you? I don't know you. Get out of here!"
He grabbed the hand I had extended to shake his and he forcefully attempted to pull me to the floor with both his hands.
"Get away!"
Turning to leave, I handed the Coke I had brought him to the attendant and suggested that she might give it to him later.
"I don't drink Coca Colas."
He then launched into a tirade at the expense of the attendant. It was of the kind not uncommon among brilliant people. It's not pretty and it's not pleasant. And, while I've experience it myself on a few occasions, I was, I must admit, shocked to see it coming from a man in such fragile circumstances. The attendant handled it well.
Back in the Jeep with my hands slumped on the steering wheel, I could only think of something that Max Lerner wrote:
Now, I'm a huge fan of Dylan Thomas and hold with what he wrote his dying father:
While death itself is sublime, dying is such a messy thing ... for everyone.
Upon entering the extended care facility, I found his room empty. I asked the attendant in the hallway if she knew where Dr. Perry might be.
"Oh, you mean Charlie? There he is coming down the hall."
Indeed, he was shuffling down the hall with his walker. As I approached with a salutation, he glared at me.
"Who are you? I don't know you. Get out of here!"
He grabbed the hand I had extended to shake his and he forcefully attempted to pull me to the floor with both his hands.
"Get away!"
Turning to leave, I handed the Coke I had brought him to the attendant and suggested that she might give it to him later.
"I don't drink Coca Colas."
He then launched into a tirade at the expense of the attendant. It was of the kind not uncommon among brilliant people. It's not pretty and it's not pleasant. And, while I've experience it myself on a few occasions, I was, I must admit, shocked to see it coming from a man in such fragile circumstances. The attendant handled it well.
Back in the Jeep with my hands slumped on the steering wheel, I could only think of something that Max Lerner wrote:
We all run on two clocks. One is the outside clock, which ticks away our decades and brings us ceaselessly to the dry season. The other is the inside clock, where you are your own timekeeper and determine your own chronology, your own internal weather, and your own rate of living. Sometimes the inner clock runs itself out long before the outer one, and you see a dead man going through the motions of living.However, upon reflection, it wasn't a dead man going through the motions of living that I saw today. No, it was a living man, his outer clock pulling his inside one into that dry season, going through the motions of dying.
Now, I'm a huge fan of Dylan Thomas and hold with what he wrote his dying father:
Do not go gentle into that good night,In the present case of Charles Clayton Perry, I fear the light has gone out. And, should I ever be in such a state as he, I can only hope someone will have the courage and the compassion to lean me up against a fence post and blow out my brains with a Colt .45.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
While death itself is sublime, dying is such a messy thing ... for everyone.
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