WWTSD
WWTSD
By John Thomas Tuft
Sometimes I sit and recall. Sometimes I sit and recall the grief. Sometimes I sit and recall the grief of others and how it lives on. Sometimes I sit and recall the grief of others and how it lives on in my own heart. I don’t really understand why that is. All the times of being there beside the bed of another human facing their own end. I read one of the stories that I have written about such events, and I feel the sting behind my own eyes. Unbidden, tears come anew for these fellow travelers. These perishables. I do not remember their names and their faces tend to blur. But I recall so clearly the letting go that they faced. I am immersed anew in the swarm of bees stinging in my chest at the absolute last breath, the unwilling bending near, waiting for one more drawing in of life. But it does not come. And my own body still aches. My eyes sting. I don’t remember your name but know that I was there. Please know. And, as you well know, I always have music in my ears as I write these. And so, I wonder, what would Taylor Swift do?
More and more I am aware that I draw closer to my own reckoning, my own ending, my last breath. Does this frighten me? Honestly, no. Story lives on and on and on… I am just one more story. I hope that when I am finished and gone that I leave behind an incomplete manuscript. For one of these stories, perhaps. Or a novel or screenplay. I might know how it ends, then again I may not. Feel free to finish it however you may choose to, it will make no nevermind to me. Or just leave it be. If you are not of the storytelling persuasion, there is always a trash can underneath my desk. Just ask Casper, he knows where everything goes. And there is a stash of M&Ms in the box on the dresser. If you think of it, bring some to the scattering of my ashes. At sunset on the shores of Lake Erie, on a bluff where the wind always blows. Blasting music that brings you joy. While asking yourself, what would Taylor Swift do?
I continue to be able to pay my expenses to be alive due to the largesse of the Presbyterian Church USA. God bless ’em. They no longer wish to be exposed to my stories but in retirement I receive higher payments as a pension than I ever earned as a minister in their congregations. That is due to the skill and knowledge of whoever it is that guides their investments of over $11 billion. I have not been medically cleared to drive since 2015. I think that’s the year. Memories of those days are seriously hazy due to…well, I’ve told you all about that period. I’ve lived in assisted living with the halt and the lame who were often found deceased in their beds in the dead of night. I experienced the craziest of graces in Ginny. She could not remember at lunch time if she’d eaten breakfast, yet I would not be sitting here writing these words without her. And John and Claudia. And Margie. The people who asked to hear my poems. The teenage girl servers who sat down and blessed me with their questions about writing. And Somarna, who will seriously hurt me if I’ve misspelled her name, again, as I did in the dedication for The Healer. But I kindly submit, what would Taylor Swift do?
I’ve entrusted you with my three grown children. In a life that turned into a daily struggle to endure pain, they are most affected. They are passionate about what they do. They are a huge reminder of where people come from. And a reminder that who they are is no longer in my hands. As it should be. When I wrote a weekly column in the Pittsburgh area newspaper, they, and their foibles and challenges of being kids, were my most common subject. Something over which they had no control. Five hundred stories in ten-inch columns makes for a lot of newsprint. The dust collecting on that newsprint in a box in my closet is in no way a reflection on them or the depth of my love for them. In addition, I have six grandchildren and one great grandchild. Not because I deserve them but because their parents wanted to know where people come from. My one and only granddaughter still plays catch with me when she comes to visit. She is now in mid-adolescence. I only know how that is going whenever I ask, what would Taylor Swift do?
At some point in the near future, in appears that I am facing major surgery. My spine had the audacity to find more ways to torment. It is affecting both of my legs. Steroids, muscle relaxers, pain meds are on the menu once again. The best possibility of a solution appears to be to split me open in the front. So there is plenty of room to work. To clean out the debris and scars of old endeavors. Take out three offending discs and hammer in new bone grafts. Then hope that the head of the dying femur in my right hip holds up long enough for healing to take place. It is a puzzle. For those with much more knowledge and skill than I possess. All I know for sure is that, when the time comes, and the surgeons at the University of Virginia turn to me to ask, “Well, Preacher Boy, what’s it going to be?” I will turn to Lillie, who is new to all this, and ask, “What would Taylor Swift do?”
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
