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It should have been a sad time, but Betty wanted to go out on a wave of champagne bubbles, surrounded by happy faces |
If you have to go, Betty
showed the way to do it
of TheColumnists.com
“I’ll be dead in six weeks. The doctor says that’s
all I’ve got left. I’m calling you first because I
need your help.”
Her foghorn of a voice could barely rasp.
Betty had been diagnosed with emphysema four years earlier. She was a devout smoker and heavy drinker. When this health problem was made known to her she did two things. First, she went to a funeral home and made her final arrangements. There would be no funeral, no casket, no flowers. As her body rolled toward the crematorium, a filter-tipped Marlborough was to be placed between her lips. She made the funeral director put this in writing and initial it.
“Here. Take this pack of cigarettes. I just quit smoking,” she told him.
Next, she went home and called her lawyer. “Eddie, your wife always has admired my mink coat. How would you like to have it as a fee? I need a new will and a trust fund.”
Betty had to find something to replace cigarettes. The telephone seemed like a good substitute. If my phone rang at home or work, it was her more than anyone else. She made telemarketers look like amateurs. During the day it was a string of questions like, “Can I borrow your food dehydrator? Do you still have that series of Ellery Queen books? When are you going to teach me the candle wicking embroidery stitch? What’s the name of that hair conditioner you use?” At night it was, “Could you bring me a couple of bottles of that white wine I like so much? Did I ever tell you about my first mother-in-law? Did I ever tell you about my last mother-in-law? Do you still have my Kama Sutra book? I’ve been thinking of inviting Paul back. When are you coming over?”
For the first three years she was pretty stable. Then, the last year, she went downhill fast. She was on permanent oxygen with a 50-foot line. Live-in nursing care was required. Once or twice a month an honest-to-the-State-of-Washington registered nurse visited. Other than that, it was a series of never-even-heard-of-a-bed-pan practical caregivers. At this point, I’d get calls all hours of the day or night: “You’ve got to help me. Nobody’s fed me since daybreak. They’re stealing me blind!”
I’d ask to talk to the caregiver, give them instructions to make sure she was fed and that her medications were current. Actually, she was being fed. She didn’t always want to eat what they served, but she was fed. As for the thefts, I can’t be sure. A number of expensive items did turn up missing, but she may have given them to friends. Betty did go through phases when she wanted to lavish gifts on us, and then she couldn’t recall doing so.
It was a fabulous 10 years that I knew her. Betty had friends in all categories of fame and fortune. There were rock stars, professional athletes, famous federal judges, big name interior decorators and a couple of TV stars. Then there was me. I rated with the commercial pilots and their wives, the lawyers, doctors, and more than half of the homosexual community in the world. She had become friends with this segment of society while living in San Francisco. Those friends gave her the nickname “fag hag.” They were “the boys” and she was “the hag.” A friend would come to town and head straight for Betty’s house. I’d answer my phone to hear the foghorn shouting over the background music, “This is the hag. Getcher ass over here for a party, bitch!” If any of “the boys” were in town I was “bitch.” Otherwise, I was Pat.
Two of her good friends from Canada had come to spend the weekend. I was as grateful to see them as she. Sleep was nearly a stranger. Those last weeks I gave her every hour away from my job that I could. Rick and Ron got the bright idea that Betty should attend her own wake. She was threatening to die on them before the weekend was up.
“You’ve simply got to get over here and help us. We want to give her a bang-up wake. Don’t even think about saying no,” Rick demanded into my half asleep ear. “And, there’s some kind of a Jesus freak that’s driving us all ca-ca-crazy!”
“What Jesus freak, Rick?” Whom are you talking about?”
“Oh, some woman who keeps praying over us. I don’t know her name.”
“Put her on the phone.”
“Uh, um, hello?” a cautious voice said to me.
“Who are you and what are you doing there? Where is the caregiver?”
“Uh, m'am, I’m here to take care of the sick lady. My name is Judy.”
“Did the agency send you for the weekend? Do you intend to stay until Monday?”
“Uh, the sick lady, she don’t act like she’ll make it to Monday. I don’t know what to do ‘cept pray for her.”
Rick took the phone back. “I sent Ron out to buy the champagne and food. Now, I need you to find us a male stripper. Can you do that? We need a dancer in a hurry. We’ll pay, you find. Okay? Puh-leez, you’ve got to get over here! One more prayer, and I swear --”
“All right, Rick. All right!”
Sure, I always spend my Saturdays rustling up a male exotic dancer for an impromptu wake. The yellow pages don’t have a listing called “male strippers,” only “telegrams –novelty.” Close enough. I got busy on the phone and found an on-call dancer. When I asked if he would agree to a full strip, I got, “That’s strictly up to the dancer. You’ll have to make those arrangements yourself.” Translation: If the price is right, he’ll do it.
Walking into Betty’s front door, I heard, “Knock off the gawdam loud music! Get this praying witch outta my face! Is anyone listening to me?”
“Betty, calm down. I’m here now. I’ll handle this.” I retreated into the kitchen, half dragging a very surprised caregiver, too.
“Okay, Judy–you are Judy, yes? When did you last feed her? Let me see the pill schedule.”
“Uh, yes, I’m Judy. She ate some breakfast–a little breakfast, I think. What pill schedule?”
“I’m calling the agency. Get your coat on and go home.” By this time I was seething.
“You have to let me call my daughter to come get me.”
Rick silently continued his sandwich making. Ron was counting champagne glasses. “Well? Did you find what we need, hmmm?” Rick asked.
“Yes, it’s all done. I’ll meet him at the garage door with the cash in my hot little hands. Hand it over now.”
“Honey! This is a party. Cheer up.” He was right. I did need to get into the party mode.
“I want the biggest glass of champagne you’ve got, Rick. First things first.”
I went back to Betty’s bedside. She had rented a hospital bed and had it set up in the living room. It was surrounded with the oxygen tanks and equipment. This space was large enough for her to hold court. Her wake would be held here.
“Betty, I’ve called the agency and sent their caregiver home. I’ll split the weekend with the boys. Now, let’s talk about who you want at this party. Who should I call?”
She was calm and told me whom to invite. “God’s going to see me soon enough. The last thing I need is a bible thumper.”
“Okay. No problem. I’m sure she meant well.” Those words barely escaped me when Judy appeared.
“Excuse me, m'am.
My daughter can’t come get me any time soon.”
“Go help with the food, please.” I got on the phone
and made the calls. Within less than an hour, the party people
arrived. A nicely decorated table displayed champagne, sandwiches
and cake. Judy had found her talent.
I met the dancer as planned. What a gorgeous hunk! He was a handsome, clean-cut young man named Brian.
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To dance for a dying lady-- with absolutely nothing on! |
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“Brian, I have to ask if you’re willing to do us a big favor. This party is for a woman who doesn’t have much longer to live. We’re giving her a wake. Betty, the guest of honor, is a real character. We want to know if you would strip down to your birthday suit. Of course, if that’s against your principles, then how far will you go? Don’t worry, you’ll get paid extra.”
He smiled kindly. “I’ll be happy to do that for her. You’re not the first party group to ask for such a service. I always come prepared. I brought my cock ring. Give me a few minutes to get into character. See, I’ve brought a boom box with my own music. When you hear me open the door and start the music, I’ll be dancing down the hall.”
Cock ring? What’s a cock ring? I wasn’t going to ask him, though.
I approached Betty’s bed. Glasses in hand, the crowd surrounded her. She was doing her share of imbibing, too.
“Betty, there’s a man here who wants to meet you. He says he’s heard good things.”
“Oh, gawd! No strangers, please. I’m dying, fer crise sake. Tell him to go away.”
“No, I think you really should meet him. You’ll like him. Trust me.” About that time, I heard the music. “Hear that? Here he comes.” I walked away from the bed.
Brian came bopping down the hall, boom box in hand, smiling brightly. All eyes right! Here came a handsome young man, barefoot, in an Air Force flight suit, zippers galore. He danced up to the end of her bed, placing the boom box near by. Rock music and gyrations filled the view.
“Wow! Wow!” Betty rapidly sat straight up in bed, laughing out loud. Bouncing and shaking her shoulders in time with the music, “Wow!”
Down came a zipper. Down came another zipper. Bounce, bounce. Wiggle, wiggle. Brian had us all clapping our hands, stomping our feet, shouting, “Take it off! Take it off!” All zippers down, all clothes off, we cheered our loudest!
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Judy. She wasn’t praying. She was smiling wide, clapping vigorously.
Now nude, except for a big sequined fig leaf on his cock ring, Brian sat on Betty’s bed. (Oh, now I get it. That’s what he called a cock ring.) Betty was happier, more animated than I’d seen her in over a year. He raised his glass and offered a toast. “To a dear lady. Enjoy!”
They drank champagne, ate sandwiches and cake. She loved it. He moved closer and held her hand. “Ah, dear. The memories; the beautiful memories you bring back,” Betty said.
“Betty, dear lady, I’m sure you gave beautiful memories, too,” he patted her hand. “I’d love to stay longer, but I can’t. Another party is expecting me soon.” He kissed her cheek. She hugged him. Our woman of the hour was happy.
I walked him to the back door. He had put his flight suit back on. “Do you think she’d be awake around midnight? If I can make it at that time, I’d like to come back to say good night.”
“Oh, Brian, I don’t know. This has been a tiring day. She keeps threatening to die on us, too. Who knows what the hours will bring?”
The party had come to an end. Everyone kissed her good bye, promising they’d see her again soon. She was exhausted, but happy. Judy shyly asked, “Is that the end of his dancing? He sure was good.” Had she been praying for more?
At 11:45 that night Brian did come back. He was dressed in an expensive suit, white shirt and lovely tie. He carried a single red rose. I hadn’t told Betty he might return. I didn’t want her to be disappointed if he didn’t. That kind young man sat and talked with her until she fell asleep. She held the rose.
We talked for about an hour. I was surprised to find out that he was a Methodist missionary’s son. His birthplace was a church mission’s hospital in Kenya. Brian was a university student majoring in psychology. I was curious to know if his family knew about his dancing job. To a degree, yes. He had told them he did party entertainment.
When I woke Betty for breakfast the next morning she was all smiles. “Look at my rose. It’s still so pretty. Oh, look at this.” She reached under her pillow and pulled out the fig leaf, attached to a heavy rubber ring. “Brian gave me his cock ring. I think I’ll sniff it all day.”
Betty lived another two weeks. She died exactly six weeks from the day her doctor had predicted. Those last days were quiet. She found peace.
I inherited the cock ring. The note in the envelope said, “I thank you for everything, dear friend. Cherish this. Think of me often. Sorry, I know I’ve sniffed away all the scent there was.”
© 2002 by Patricia
J. Geister. The illustrations are from IMSI's Master Clips Collection,
1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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