Killing me softly

Feb 28, 2011 Features / Columnists, Tony Deyal column

---

There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, “Master, just now when I was in the marketplace I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture. Now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me.”
The merchant lent the servant his horse, and the servant mounted it, and dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, “Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?” “That was not a threatening gesture,” I said. “It was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.”
This story from Iraqi folklore was supposedly retold by W Somerset Maugham in 1933 and became the title of John O’Hara’s first novel, Appointment in Samarra published in 1934. The story emphasises the fact, known to us all, that it does not matter where you come from or who you are, all roads, whether on or off the beaten track, the one less followed or the paths of glory, lead inevitably to Samarra.
Yet, I find this very difficult to appreciate especially when my contemporaries or people younger and healthier than me precede me on the trip. Recently, my colleague Keith Smith died and even though I was not surprised it was still difficult to come to terms with his death. I joke that at my age, and given the fragility of life, I no longer buy green “figs” or bananas. I tell people that when I wake up in the morning I stay in bed until I get the newspaper and if my name is not in the obituaries, I get up and go about my daily business. All that, though, is sheer bravado. My father was in a coma for a long time and even though I expected his death, when it came I was still not prepared and broke down at his funeral.
I read about Keith’s death in an e-mail and, perhaps for the first time in my family’s memory, I was speechless.
I remember telling Keith this joke about how not to break bad news to people. Very early one morning, as the army platoon assembled in front of the camp, a rough, tough sergeant called the squad to attention and then said loudly, “Private Smith. Pack your bags to go home for a few days. Your father died last night.” The squad’s lieutenant, on hearing about the incident, called in the sergeant and berated him for lack of both tact and compassion. “The man could have dropped dead with shock,” he told the sergeant, “and the army could have been sued. If a situation like that happens again you better handle it much more diplomatically.” The sergeant promised to do so and the matter rested there until a few weeks later, after reveille, when the squad lined up again in front the camp, the sergeant barked, “All those whose mothers are still alive take one step forward”. Then after a very short pause, he shouted, “Private Smith, where the heck do you think you’re going?”
I remember an undertaker in the community in which my grandfather lived who, upon hearing that one of the villagers was very ill, would rush to “visit” his old friend and acquaintance. He would sit on a chair at the side of the bed and using his hands asked softly, “Neighbour, tell me, where hurting? Is it here?” Starting from the feet he would progress to the head of the person still asking, “Is here hurting? Or here?” So when the person finally left for Samarra, the undertaker would say to the grieving family, “Don’t bother to go to a funeral home in town, I already have the right size of coffin done make.”

There’s a story about an undertaker who went over to the grieving widow just before the funeral and asked, “How old was your husband?” Sobbing, she replied, “Ninety-eight. Just two years older than me.” “So you’re ninety-six,” said the undertaker solicitously. “Hardly worth going home, is it?”
I am at the point where I would like my friends and family to be more careful when announcing the deaths of people I know, especially those who are close to me.
The best example of how to manage this is from a story about Daniel and Howard who were brothers and lived in south Trinidad. Daniel lived with their elderly mother and took care of her. Howard, also a bachelor, worked for a regional conglomerate and lived with his cat, Ginger. Howard was besotted by Ginger and his life revolved around her. So when he had to travel to Jamaica to sort out a problem there, he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t “fire” the job because he would have no money to support Ginger. He couldn’t take her with him because of the quarantine hassle and he couldn’t leave her behind on her own.
He eventually decided to trust his brother Daniel with Ginger while he was away. Before he left, Howard went around to Daniel and explained in great detail what to do. Along with Ginger, he handed Daniel tons of cat food, medicine and written instructions. With tears in his eyes, he said goodbye to Ginger and then left. Immediately upon his arrival in Kingston, Howard started calling his brother. Morning, noon and night the calls flew thick and fast. However, on the fourth day when Howard called about his cat, Daniel replied, “I’m afraid Ginger is dead, Howard.” Howard was upset. He told his brother angrily, “That was most cruel, Daniel. You know how much I loved Ginger. Why couldn’t you have broken it to me gently?” “How could I have done that?” Daniel asked.
“Well,” said Howard, “when I called, you could have said, ‘Well she’s OK but she’s up on the roof.’ Then, when I called the next time, you could have said, ‘She fell off the roof and she’s at the vet.’ And then, the next time, you could have said, ‘I’m sorry, but she passed away peacefully.’ At least then I would have been a little prepared for the bad news.” “Yes, you’re right, I’m so sorry,” said Daniel. Howard then asked, “By the way, how’s mum?” “She’s … OK,” replied Daniel, “she’s up on the roof fixing a tile.”
• Tony Deyal was last seen walking in a cemetery where he saw four men carrying a coffin. Three hours later he saw the same men still wandering around carrying the coffin. He thought to himself, “They’ve lost the plot.”

---

---