In the Business Office Chatting about Dying

In the Business Office Chatting about Dying

When I went into the business office to get the phone number of a potential part time instructor, I took time to visit with Betty. She handles our faculty insurance claims, among other things. She said, “I talked with Tom today. Actually, he called me twice. His voice was very weak. But he sounded sharp as a tack. He was worried about a medical bill that the insurance company hadn’t paid.”

“That’s amazing,” I said. “Still taking care of business.”

“I know,” Betty said. “Anyway, I called Managing Underwriters and said, ‘Look, this guy is on his deathbed. Just pay the bill.’ Well, evidently they called him, and then he called me back to tell me it was straightened out.”

I don’t know what people are supposed to be doing with their dying breaths—contemplating mortality, reviewing their lives like Marley confronting the ghosts of Christmases past, or taking care of business, like Tom, my dear friend and colleague in the English Department.

I didn’t say any of that to Betty. What I said was, “Did you know Bill ?” Betty had finished making a copy of the applicant’s file, and we just stood leaning against the duplicating machine talking in lowered voices. It was a quiet morning. She had time to visit and so did I.

She knew exactly who I was talking about. “Yes, but not well ,” she said.

“I didn’t think I saw you at the funeral.”

“How was it?”

I could tell by her tone that she had heard about it and was interested in my version.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful...” I had already commented to my husband that when you go to somebody’s funeral you shouldn’t rate it like a movie. It’s not entertainment. “…and I think that they must have planned it together, down to every last detail. I suppose that’s one of the only advantages of dying a long slow death.” I’m pretty sure Betty could see right through my pseudo piety, especially when I said, “including the widow wearing red.”

“No!” she whispered.

“That’s what I mean about getting to plan your own funeral. Those two definitely had their own sense of style. I’ll bet that Bill said to her, ‘Now I don’t want to see you in black.’ It was a handsome coat, red wool felt with fringe on the bottom. She wore a black hat and black boots. I’ll have to say that I was a little worried about the brakes on the wagon. You know that cemetery in Willits is on a hillside. She was sitting up with the driver, holding a single white rose and she had her little black dog in her lap. Two brown mules pulled the wagon. Bill was laid out in a simple pine box. Anyway, when the driver helped her out of the wagon and before the pall bearers lifted the casket from the wagon bed, I just hoped there were good brakes and that nothing spooked those mules.” Betty didn’t say anything but she was clearly enjoying visualizing the details.

I changed the subject—sort of—by saying, “And then there’s poor Yvonne. Betty nodded in reference to the college librarian who, like Tom, is suffering the final stages of cancer. The past few weeks she has still been coming to work, pale skin and bones and quiet dignity. “Do you know what Tonia did?” I said, raising my voice a little. “ She announced to everybody that she had a get well card for Yvonne and to be sure to stop by her office to sign it. A get well card, “ I said. “Can you believe it?”

“Well Tonia doesn’t have a clue," Betty said as she handed me the copies I was waiting for, "and that’s all I have to say about that.”

The conversations around the duplicating machines, in the hallways, over coffee, they are often about death these days. That’s just the way it is.