By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. Do you remember the theme music for the 1958
Alfred Hitchcock classic “Vertigo”? That music was composed by master
mood manipulator Bernard Herrmann, one of the best. I selected this
music, of course, because it accentuates the words of the article; also
because I suffer from vertigo, and know the fear of falling, out of
control, unable to stop. It is terrifying. You will easily find this
tune in any search engine. Find it now… and play it loud. You are about
not just to read but participate in a story of primal fear… and this
music sets just the right mood of alarm, panic, and heartrending
despair.
It was a late July 2011 evening in Johannesburg, South Africa, and
the household of the unidentified man at the center of this story was in
shock, sorrow and lamentations. Their 80-year old patriarch had died
unexpectedly after complaining of chest pains and difficulty breathing.
The family had been through this before; he suffered from acute asthma.
They had urged him to lay down and rest, never thinking that these pains
were any different from those which came before, that this time they
signalled the end. However, they did and within just a couple of hours
the family was dealing with the shock and horror of his unexpected
death.
In due course the family called in an undertaker to help.
The morgue was owned by Ayanda Maqolo who asked his driver to visit
the family, work with its members at this difficult moment, and take the
body for burial. It was in every way a standard case, the most
difficult part, as always, dealing with the grieving family and the
usual “What if…” questions, wondering if they couldn’t have done more…
if there wasn’t something they might have done. The driver did his best
to reassure and comfort, but he was on a tight schedule… and he had
things to do before taking the body away.
He therefore set about examining the body, checking the victim’s
pulse, looking for a heartbeat… but, as Maqolo said, there was no sign
of life, none at all. Again, it was all standard, absolutely nothing out
of the ordinary. The poor old gentleman was well and truly dead, but
then he was eighty and ailing.
And so the driver took the body to Maqolo’s morgue, put it into a
locked, refrigerated compartment. It was now an object subject to rules
and regulations, on its way to cremation. The owner locked up for the
night, going home to his family, glad to be alive.
But the old gentleman wasn’t dead. He was as alive as you or me. And now he was alone, more alone than he had ever been….
Perhaps the coolness of the facility helped… but in a while the old
gentleman began to stir. He thought he was dreaming… and in this dream
he was on his back, confined in a small compartment, just big enough for
him. He sensed he was not alone… that there was something else, many
somethings near at hand. He shook himself… he didn’t like this dream…
and, besides, he needed the loo, as old gentlemen do.
But in an instant, he knew that this wasn’t a dream. It was
terrifying reality. He didn’t know where he was… but he knew he was
trapped there. He began to scream for help; these screams didn’t sound
like him; they sounded like yelps of terror and despair, sounds he had
never heard himself make before. There was no answer…. nothing stirred
in this facility of death, where oblivion was always the order of the
day.
After a while, his strength abated; his were no longer sharp and
piercing but the pathetic sounds a wounded animal makes as its lifeblood
runs out and its smells death. Besides now his cool compartment
smelled. A supremely clean man, he now lay in his own dirt and urine,
frightened… disgusted. This was not the way in which he wanted to meet
his God.
And now he passed into a new, different stage. At first, like all
victims of every accident, his focus was on his escape. He was certain
he would escape; that getting out was simply a matter of shouting the
right number of screams… kicking the door the right number of times… and
persisting. But that hadn’t worked… and he knew the acute sensation
that the world and he were now disconnected and that the living were
already in the process of moving on, even discussing how they would
spend the little windfall his death would provide.
Now he flashed angry… He thought: they always tolerated me just for
the money; they never truly loved me or even wanted me around. His
vulgar daughter-in-law was the worst of all… she had always had her eye
on the money. And then, alone in the dark recalling the miseries,
insults and humiliations of life, he considered how easily she might
have doctored his food…. or his medicine. She had motive, access, and no
doubt the potion required to simulate death. He felt indignation, rage,
hatred… and he beat on the unyielding bright steel compartment with
renewed energy fueled by murderous wrath. If he was doomed to die here…
he would go happy with her blood on his hands. This thought irradiated
his withered face with a happiness formed from bile, acid and disdain.
Trapped on his back, able to wiggle fingers and toes, but little
more, every sense was accentuated. It was as if he were experiencing
them for the first time. He could smell the smells of old age and
evacuation… and… then he remembered. When his aunt had died in a car
accident when he was a boy, his father went to the morgue to identify
her; he had insisted on you going too; it was a thing a boy must know.
Now he knew he was in a morgue… and that the somethings around him were
each a formerly sentient human, now a husk awaiting the flames… and he
sobbed. For he knew that that was his fate, too.
He beat on his cage, with every ounce of his dwindling strength. For
he was not ready to go… not ready to die… he had life to claim and not a
moment to relinquish.
He was old, alone, buried, unheard, despairing… and yet alive.
He tried to comport himself for God, for now he knew (how had he ever
doubted) that God was real and waiting… but he kept reverting to
thoughts of life… and how he was being cheated of what was his, for all
there was little of it left. It’s mine, he shrieked. Mine! And he
thought he saw the countenance of God, smiling, beckoning… calling him
home…
… and so he passed into uneasy sleep.
Then he felt, rather than saw, there was a pinprick of bright light…
which motivated him to beat on his compartment and scream for
assistance. His unearthly yells were heard… and frightened the workers,
who always knew the devil and his helpers were real. And now they were
in this very room… purveyors of mayhem and damnation. Maqolo, as owner,
though frightened out of his wits, went forward and with fearful
trepidation unlocked the fetid compartment where a pale, agitated but
grateful old gentleman with great civility asked to be taken out… and
taken home. His family was ecstatic though his daughter-in-law looked
apprehensive as well she might.
The old gentleman had passed 21 hours in desperation… weighed down by
doom, death a growing possibility. He had screamed for God and
deliverance… losing hope, sobbing as he confronted the theft of his
life. But this time, God answered the prayers of torment and dismay… and
gave the man a renewed lease on life and a profound relief at the shear
joy of escaping death, with a new ability to live! Live! And be
grateful. Still the unloved and suspected daughter-in-law had best step
lively….
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