Echoes of Immortality — A Hero’s Final Anthem

“Sing your death song and die like a hero going home” — Tecumseh

THE DAY MY MOTHER DIED, I looked out at traffic and thought: It just goes on? You pass away, and the lights still run red, green, and yellow? If I go down, this traffic light routine has got to stop.

Obit Lit and Death Discounts

I didn’t consider I would die until recently. Death was real, but I was a busy man.

The local newspaper interspersed obituaries with news. The police blotter was interrupted by Christina Arnold, loving wife and mother, 1947–2021.

1947: my generation.

I stormed around, reacting to the idea of dying. My past was a conflicted presence: the accomplished, generous man was also a fool who drove people away. There wasn’t time to develop an improved, final self.

I began writing explanations to make my case against hypocrites. On my deathbed, I’d shoot rage into the ether as my last act in this world.

AARP included 50-year-olds as members, shamelessly building an empire with free blood pressure sleeves and coffin discounts. My blood pressure was fine until they pissed me off by gloating over an inheritance tax triumph in D.C.

I wrote the editor about the obits. He wrote back to explain that good people cared about their neighbors passing.

A Thousand Years

The medical reporter on the radio said: Dr. Blackwell believes people who will live to be 1000 years old are alive today. I imagined a toddler receiving a lifetime of designer chemistry and 25th-century nutrition. There would be supplements, strengtheners, infusions, revitalization nodes, and weekly transfusions of iron-rich artificial plasma.

Could I be a candidate? I was excited. How about being in your twenties for a century? Or two centuries being as wise and focused and still physically sublime as I had been in my fifties?

There was a flip side: Could you get Alzheimer’s at age 200 and live for 800 years in withering confusion? Would you be expelled from the program and left to die within weeks? Heartless, but you wouldn’t know it: you’d have Alzheimer’s. Techno-philosophers and chemo-theologists would be trying to reconcile unimaginable dilemmas. I was already planning an age-based legal defense should I commit a crime at Age 375.

Could you have sex until you were 900? Would it be illegal for a 725-year-old to have sex with a 40-year-old? The term dirty old man would have a whole new dimension.

You can bet Elon Musk will buy his way to the front of the line. Right now, though, spots could be open. Maybe I could live to be a thousand.

Qualifications for Eternity

How could I convince the selection team I belonged on the A-List?

It was like applying to be on Noah’s Ark. I represent……Everyman: smart, conflicted, generous and selfish, warm and aloof, a grown-up and a little boy, a student of religion and an atheist, plus ……….

I’d appreciate having my life lengthened. I don’t want to die! I’d cherish every extra minute. I would be in service to humankind. I’d take up recycling.

I was 66. That sounded young if 1000 years was a full lifespan. If I would normally have lived to 84, 1000 years was 12 times more, so for every twelve years I aged only one. At 66, I was the equivalent of 5 1/2 years old, kindergarten age, when I did feel immortal.

Where do I sign up?

Doctor Alistair Blackwell was a one-man ambassador for the 1000-yr. idea. He was somewhere in California but hard to reach. With no other options, I paid a first visit to my Medicare physician for a check-up.

A nurse asked me a few questions, took my vitals, opened a new computer file, then lifted her fingers off the keyboard and looked at me.

‘No complaints, you’re 66 and feeling fine,’ she said, doubt in her voice. ‘You’re here because ……. ?’

‘I get postcards from you about preventative health, so I came in.’

She finished my profile and left the room. Soon, Dr. Jordan entered, a striking brunette with a commanding attitude, accompanied by a scruffy male intern introduced as Dr. Small.

‘You’re Donn Harris?’ Doctor Jordan asked, flipping through the blank chart. ‘Never seen me before?’ she asked.

‘Online there’s a photo,’ I offered, ‘but you look different.’ She assessed me for a second with an odd expression, then returned to the paperwork. Finally she demanded, ‘Is there something specific you want?’

‘Yes,’ I said, and both turned to me, ‘a referral to the anti-aging clinic.’ Dr. Jordan looked at me as if I were an alien. Small coughed and hacked into his forearm. ‘You have …….. signs of aging?’ she asked. I mentioned the 1000-yr. idea but she waved me off, answered a text, then left abruptly. Small shrugged; then he sent off his own text, smiling at me conspiratorially.

‘Dr. Keith shouldn’t be long,’ he said.

A male physician rushed in, glancing around the room as if he couldn’t see us. The glare on the buffed floors may have blinded him. The physician was youthful, sandy-haired, and very tan. His eyes adjusted and settled on me. Dr. Small said: ‘Everything checks out.’

‘What kind of dosage do you want?’ the Doctor inquired, producing a pen and a prescription pad from his pocket.

‘Of what?’ I asked.

‘I’m assuming the daily dose,’ he continued, beginning to write. When I didn’t respond, he stopped and looked at me. ‘Cialis, right, the 5mg daily dose? Performance on demand? Isn’t that what we all want?’

‘Sure,’ I said, thinking it couldn’t hurt.

‘Good choice,’ said Dr. Small.

‘OK, here you go,’ the doctor said, handing me the prescription. ‘Something more?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said, flustered. ‘I came for the anti-aging clinic ……. Dr. Blackwell says the person who will live to be 1000 is alive today. I thought ……..’

Now, Dr. Keith scrutinized me. I put the prescription away quickly, thinking he might take it back.

‘I don’t usually discuss politics with patients,’ he confided. ‘But Blackwell is no scientist. Don’t let them intimidate you on the way out,’ he advised. ‘Geriatrics gets the best service because elders have influence. I mean, you’re our parents. What am I going to do, charge mom $4000 a month for meds so I can take the profits and go big game hunting in Kenya with my pharmaceutical rep?’

5 on a scale of 5

At check-out, I was given an appointment for the Wellness Clinic for 9:30am the very next day. ‘We want you to be seen right away,’ the receptionist told me, proud that she accomplished this. ‘We didn’t realize ……… ’ she began, then trailed off. She handed me a card with time and place filled in, then asked: ‘Will you give me a 5 on the evaluation you’ll get by text?’

‘Out of 5?’ I teased, but she wasn’t smiling.

‘I got you the appointment to Wellness the next day,’ she defended herself. ‘And if you didn’t like Doctor, that’s a different problem. I re-scheduled something else, and he got here quickly. The survey is about me,’ she insisted. ‘Not a rude doctor or ……. whoever. Me.’

I read her name from a badge on a lanyard around her neck. ‘I can give you a 5, Gretchen. You were very helpful. You’re a ten!’ I gushed.

‘Watch it,’ she warned. ‘A 5 is fine.’

A Thousand Years, Part II

That night, I learned the Board of Alistair Blackwell’s Foundation had placed him on administrative leave. The story was in a sidebar when I went online. A female colleague had come forward with allegations that he suggested she should have sex with potential donors. A second woman, an intern from CalTech, said Blackwell offered to discuss his active sex life with her over drinks.

A Board member asked: What good is an extended life if it’s led immorally?

I was sunk. Now I would be scrutinized. Incidents involving me would emerge, and I would be rejected. This was Judgment Day, just as the Bible promised.

I mindlessly probed the Internet. I clicked on a YouTube music video that I vaguely recognized. The orchestral pop tune was titled “A Thousand Years.” The singer was in a dark candle-lit space; soon, the image pixelated into an outdoor wedding. It was a scene from the first Twilight vampire movie, spliced into the music video. Kristen Stewart was led to Robert Pattinson at the altar, and the handsome vampire radiated joy and love. They had been a real-life couple; years after the release of the music video, Kristen was to be photographed in the arms of another man. In this video, she looked fragile and timid. Robert did not look a day over 120.

There he stood in all innocence, the brutal future unknown. The music hit a crescendo and crashed; the video went black. A thousand years of precious life. It was the same old crap: betrayal, secrets, pain.

I had my own debilitating moments. Could I bear them for a thousand years? Is this what I would get, flirting with eternity?

Bootleg Wellness

I slept unevenly, troubled by my unworthiness for an extended life.

When the alarm rang, I awoke listless and scattered. I got lost and arrived seven minutes late. ‘That’s OK, son, relax,’ Dr. Gold soothed me as I stumbled in. White-haired, slow-moving, he could have been 85.

The restricted access area behind reception was a large, disorderly child’s play space. I was back in kindergarten.

‘Have you taken a Personality Inventory test before?’ Doc asked.

‘A bootleg version,’ I answered, ‘when I was a teenager.’

‘They’re all bootleg,’ Doc said. ‘I have one they want me to give you.’ He patted a folder on the table.

We agreed that he could leave for a few hours while I tackled 476 True/False questions. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’ he inquired.

‘This isn’t a lead-in to the anti-aging clinic?’ I asked stupidly. I was like a pinball in a broken machine, smacked around by flippers. He showed me the referrals written by Dr. Jordan’s staff and quotes compiled by Gretchen.

Dr. Jordan was quoted as saying: ‘Delusional, fixated on living to be 1000. Angling for potency drug.’

Other staff’s comments: ‘Makes us squirm to get high evaluation marks — something off about him.’

‘They’ve red-flagged you,’ Gold told me. ‘Possible Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Hard to get rid of that diagnosis.’

‘What’re you going to say about me?’

‘Healthy as a horse!’ Gold offered. ‘Could live to 500.’

‘I’d take that,’ I said.

‘I know you would,’ Doc said, almost soothingly. ‘Donn, answer these questions honestly. There’s a built-in Truth-O-Rama function. Don’t get clever.’

At 10:30, a receptionist arrived, and Doc strolled out into the bright autumn day.

TRUE/FALSE x 476

Now, I was alone in the kindergarten room, facing an eternity of True/False statements, the results to define my future.

I recognized the first statement right away.

#1: My father is/was someone I admire/d.

Way to ease me in.

#7: It matters to me if colors seem to clash.

#19: I have told lies when I had no apparent reason.

#93: I am not responsible for the things that happen to me.

I stood up abruptly, my body stiff and cramping. I paced to work out the physical kinks and to escape the muddle of my thoughts; the former improved, but not the latter. Of course, if things “happened to me” I wasn’t responsible. Did I take responsibility for my life? — was the real question. I checked FALSE.

#126: I seek solutions when problems occur.

#201: My mother is/was a strong person.

#322: I deserve what I have gotten in my life.

How could anyone possibly answer that? It surely was a Truth-O-Rama question tied to #93. I was wearing down now.

#449: What my father taught me about the world turned out to be true.

#476: The law of averages rules; things even out in the end.

………. Things even out? Give me 500 years, maybe I’ll know then. I was sweating now, completely fatigued. I laid my head on the cold table…………

………… and awoke sometime later. My face was stuck to the formica table top; perspiration and residue from Play-Dough and Kraft Glue had formed an adhesive and I could not move my face. I twisted my cheek a bit to see what was in my vicinity. The table around me had been cleared. I thought I heard Doc Gold in the back office, whistling.

‘Doc,’ I cried, ‘I’m stuck,’ but he did not hear me. Panicking, I gripped the desk hard, pulled my face up and pushed on the table. The table shot off in one direction, crashing into cabinets set against the far wall. I slid in the other direction on my side, coming to rest in a fetal position.

I opened my eyes to see Doc looking down on me stoically. He helped me up, and we went into the back office.

Measurement of a Man

We were eating oatmeal cookies and sipping lemonade, and I began to feel a bit less foggy.

Doc handed me the exam results, printed in color on glossy paper. I had almost no indications of Hypochondria, Hysteria, or Gender Dysfunction.

My Harm Reduction score was very low, meaning I was unable to steer myself away from trouble or stop obsessing about things that hurt me. Social Interaction was negative. My worst areas were Proportion and Judgment — priorities confused, balance off, bad timing, contradictory choices: a troubled man. The fog began to return.

‘A very unusual profile,’ Doc said. ‘When I first read this, I thought you had tried to outwit the Truth-O-Rama.’ He turned the hand-out to page 4, where the number 96 was prominent in a red circle, stating the scores were valid.

‘I’m not going to make it onto any 1000-year selection list, am I Doc?’ I asked.

Doc Gold removed his glasses. His blue eyes were weary, the eyes of a man who cared for humanity. I was worried only about Donn Harris. I still wanted that piece of the world I believed was mine; it wasn’t cooperating. It never had: I was able to grab it temporarily, but my time was up.

‘Do you really want to live 1000 years?’ Doc asked.

I took a beat and told him something as close to the truth as I could summon: ‘I don’t want to die.’

‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘But we probably will.’

When my children were born, each of them, I had one thought I couldn’t avoid: I was going to have to say goodbye one day. The thought filled me with deep, crushing sadness. I would get distracted, but it was always there, a dark corner to avoid. Somebody may live to 1000, but it wasn’t going to be me. Alistair Blackwell didn’t believe it would be him, either: his self-sabotaging behavior was familiar. Men mask their professional failures with idiotic personal ones. And so that dream was over. False hope was still hope, went one argument, but you had to die before learning the truth to make that work. So I was back at the beginning.

‘I am going to tell you something,’ Doc Gold asserted. ‘It may sound presumptuous, as we’ve just met.’

‘Go ahead, Doc,’ I encouraged him.

‘I don’t think you wanted to live 1000 years,’ he surmised, ‘as much as you wanted to finish your story by being on that list.’

That held the ring of truth. It would tell the world — He was worthy, he made the cut.

‘Maybe I ought to go to work on that,’ I mused, standing. ‘Even if there isn’t a list.’

‘Work on Harm Reduction,’ he advised. ‘You’ll be OK.’

‘Judgment and Proportion?’ I asked meekly.

‘They would take a little more time,’ Doc Gold reasoned.

I lifted my lemonade, made a toast: ‘To the next 1000 years,’ and drank from a kindergartener’s plastic cup, the smell of immortality not unfamiliar.

Hero Going Home

I drove home; highway traffic was light. At the exit, we were backed up for a few minutes. I saw police cars and a man being lifted high on a crane in a service box. A few cars were released every few minutes, and shortly I was in the front car, a cop directing traffic giving me the stop signal with his hand. He walked over, leaned in my window. ‘Just a few minutes,’ he said.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Been happening all over the county: lights running through a few quick cycles before going dead.’ We stared up at the worker in the box, disassembling the traffic light as it swayed in the breeze.

‘OK,’ the young cop said, receiving a signal from his partner across the street, ‘you can go.’ I eased into the street, caught the repair scene in my rearview mirror. The man in the technician’s box appeared to be floating.

I was going home. I had nothing in particular to do: no explanation to craft, explaining my sins. I was alive, in fairly good health despite the suspicion of a Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and oddly elated that there was a traffic light crisis. My head kept pumping out thoughts without much effort on my part, and the universe seemed to be listening. The future, however short, held out some promise. Many things were possible once I dumped crazy ideas, like living for 1000 years.

What did I think I was, anyway, a vampire?