They always get me at the DMV, and it’s always in more ways than one, so I am not surprised by the turmoil that’s ensued since my last visit.
I had to go in. My driver’s license was up for renewal, and my options were to visit an eye doctor and mail in the results, or take a quick and free eye examine at the DMV, and then pay $85 for the privilege of renewing my license. Never mind that I had just paid $85 to renew it six months ago when I moved, that didn’t push back my required renewal date. Apparently I could have saved $4 each time if I was not licensed to ride the motorcycle I had sold two years ago.
Waiting patiently, my number was called, and I went up to meet my assigned clerk, and there she was, this pretty little heart. It was a red heart, small and iconic-like, graphically inserted into the right side of an enlarged poster of a fictional citizen’s New York State Driver License—doing their part—proudly displaying the fact that they were a registered organ donor. The truth is, I had wanted to do this for some time, so I signed up.
Later, at home, I the faithless atheist shared the noble news with my wonderful and beautiful god-fearing wife. She listened as she washed off a fresh coat of honey from the small Ganesha sculpture she kept on the corner of my home office desk (for good fortune), same as she did every day. The less I believed, the more she prayed, and she never limited herself to just one faith.
“I thought you wanted to be cremated?” She asked.
“Still do.”
“Don’t you want to know that your final resting place will be by my side where we’ll share a grave one day.”
“No reason why we still can’t do that, I just figured if I’m out of luck, given the chance, it would make me happy to give the gift of life to someone else in need.”
“Okay…”
The next day, we went to dinner with my parents at a Turkish restaurant we all liked. As we sat around a small square table and my mother talked my wife’s ear off, I shared the news with my father as we all nibbled on a plate of appetizers.
“Okay…” He said. “I don’t think I could do that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m old, I don’t think my parts would be any good for that. Its not for me.”
I looked at my mom and didn’t dare share my news.
My mom opened up a new conversation for the table and shared some unpleasant information. My grandmother—her mother—was showing more than ever that she was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. Except that my grandmother wasn’t quite suffering at all, it was everyone else in her life that was.
Mom proceeded to give a laundry list of actions and events my grandmother had committed, solidifying what everyone had already suspected for perhaps a year now. Finally, losing my appetite, I had to jump in.
“Perhaps, instead of going over all these unimportant and embarrassing details, can’t we just talk about the greatness of her life? You know, spare her her dignity.”
My mom boiled up to a beet red.
My father injected his wisdom, “What are you, stupid?”
Dinner was served and everyone pretended that nothing was wrong. Years of anxiety over their own morality were suppressed back into the depths of my parent’s minds, confused, angry, and answerless.
Later that night, back at our home, my wonderful beautiful wife was ready to share her comments in an organized and thought-out manner. We were washed and changed for bed, same as we did every day (for good fortune), drinking chamomile tea as the television colored some background noise in the room.
“I’m really proud of you for what you said tonight.” She said to me. “Your parents don’t know how to deal with death, and that’s why they wrap themselves up in useless details about life. You were right, better to remember someone for the good they’ve done.”
A few weeks later my new driver’s license arrived in the mail. That little heart was worth every breath I’d ever take.
