A one-year-old child is trying to take her first steps, alone, with no helping hands. Surrounding her are seven adults, all family. Seven pairs of eyes are glued to the child, transfixed, accompanied by seven daffy, involuntary grins, eagerly awaiting the outcome of the swaying toddler's struggle against gravity. She loses the battle and topples unceremoniously, face first onto the living room carpet. A chorus of sympathetic sighs augments Amy's cries of frustration. Swift arms scoop her up, with kisses of commiseration. Not to be deterred, the tiny tot wriggles mightily to be let loose, once more to do battle with the forces of nature. This time she takes three steps, shakily to be sure, but steps they are. Her proud smile is ear to ear—as are all the other smiles in the room. Then, weary from her efforts, she plops down on her bottom and graciously accepts the expected cheers and applause. This is humanism.
Amy and Ned face each other on a flower-bedecked lanai, dressed in old lace and scratchy tuxedo material, as they say their vows. In front of people they love and honor, they vow to love and respect each other as they begin their lives as husband and wife. Their love and commitment bind them; their vows are solely between each other; there are no gods to obey or appease. Just love. A kiss for luck, and it's time to celebrate. The music is wonderful, the refreshments are wonderful, the dancing is wonderful, and life is wonderful. This is humanism.
Something
had gone horribly wrong. The tiny embryo insider her would never turn into a
normal human being. The test had been redone, twice, but with the same result:
there would be multiple deformities. There would be no chance ever for this
child to live outside a hospital setting. Never.
Amy
and Ned agonize over their decision. This planned pregnancy had been eagerly
hoped for. But in the end they both agree that a life with no possibility of
happiness was not a life at all. A weeping Amy has an abortion.
Seven months later Amy is again pregnant. And joyous. She ultimately delivers a healthy eight-pound baby girl—Melinda. The baby talk begins immediately. Ned is conversant immediately. Three-way baby gibberish begins. The proud parents are giddy and silly. This is humanism.
Around
three years later a boy child, Jason, is born. Ned says seriously that if the
boy becomes a poet he will be delighted. Amy says that if he becomes an NFL star
she will be delighted. They are both lying. But they are not lying about their
love for this tiny new child. Jason's big sister, Melinda, has an equally
sincere love for the baby, but decides to call him Roger Dodger. No one ever
figured out why.
While
still in the maternity ward at the hospital, Amy watches as her nearest
roommate, who had a long, difficult labor and finally a C-Section, is handed her
baby. Foggy at best, but smiling weakly, the roommate seems not to be aware that
her newborn baby son has just had the tip of his penis cut off. Though they had
been urged to allow it, Amy and Ned were firm about refusing this archaic
religious practice that possesses no medical validity whatever. But Amy is quiet
about her beliefs and convictions when talking to her roommate. Now is not the
right time. Instead, she simply offers encouragement and sympathy to this young
woman, who seems to be in a great deal of pain. This is humanism.
"Mommy, who is Santa Claus?" There is a long, awkward silence. Amy sighs and clears her throat. This question has been long anticipated. "Well, Honey, Santa Claus is just a fun, pretend person that some people say puts all the presents under the tree on Christmas morning."
"Don't those come from you and Daddy?"
"Yes, they do."
"Then who is Santa Claus?!"
"Well, a lot of Mommies and Daddies like to play a game and pretend that a magical man with a big white beard and flying reindeer, sneaks into everyone's house in the middle of the night and puts presents under their trees. It's just a game. It's pretend. See?"
"Sort of. But why do they do it?"
"Oh, just to have fun, I guess."
A thoughtful silence, then, "I think it's silly."
"We do too, but remember something. It's very important to keep this a secret. I know there's no Santa Claus, and you know there's no Santa Claus, but a lot of your friends think there is a Santa Claus. If you go and tell them there is no Santa Claus, you'll spoil their game. So don't tell them, all right?"
"I
guess so. But I still think it's silly. Are there any Oreos left?"
This is humanism.
"Daddy, who is Jesus?"
It is now Ned's turn on the hot seat. "He is what some people think of as a god. Like the Hindu god, Vishnu. Or…."
"Fishnu?!"
"No. Vishnu. In different parts of the world, people believe in different gods. They believe the gods live up in the sky or someplace invisible, and Jesus is one of those gods."
"Jody said he prayed to Jesus for his dog not to die, but he died anyway."
Ned thought, Bingo! What he said, though, was "Jody and a lot of your friends believe in a god and they pray to the god to help them." As a preemptive strike he added, "Even though they don't usually get any help."
"Then why do they pray?"
"That's a good question. But most people pray to feel better. They want to believe there is someone watching over them, taking care of them."
"Do we believe in a god?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Well, have you ever seen a god?"
"No."
"Neither have I. Have you ever heard a god or talked to a god?"
"No, but I've seen a picture of Jesus."
"That was a drawing, not a picture. People can draw anything—like Donald Duck. Is he real?"
Smiling, "No. But why do people believe something that's not real?"
"It makes them feel better. They don't understand where the planets and the sun and stars came from, so they figure it must be from some kind of god."
"Where did they come from?"
Sigh. "There are some things we may never understand. But enough for now. We'll talk about the universe tomorrow. I promise. Okay?"
"Okay.
Are there any Oreos left?" This is humanism.
Racing into Amy's study, Melinda sputters breathlessly, "Danny just told me that if I don't believe in Jesus I'll go to hell and I'm gonna burn forever and scream and everyone around me will be screaming and…"
Amy turns away from her computer and keels on the floor, hugging her frantic daughter. "Now calm down, Melly."
"But Danny said I won't ever stop burning and there'll be flames coming out of my mouth and…" Tears flow down her cheeks as she gasps for air.
"Shhh. Quiet now. Listen to me, okay? I want you to listen to me."
A slow nod, a few more tears, then silence.
Staring down into the huge, frightened eyes, Amy says, "What Danny told you is what some people really believe. But we don't believe it, and a whole lot of other people don't believe it either. Your friend Sandra doesn't believe it, does she?"
"No. She said she was Jewish."
"See? We all believe different things."
"But Danny says if you kill someone or steal something God will send you to hell."
"Do you want to kill someone or steal something?"
Indignantly, "No!"
"I don't either. Grandma and Grandpa taught me to love other people, not to be afraid of a god. And that's what we want for you. So the next time Danny tries to scare you, you tell him you don't believe in hell and you don't want to talk about it any more. All right?"
The
response is a slow nod and a look of relief. This is humanism.
The
unmistakable paraphernalia of life-supporting equipment are everywhere.
Respirators, feeding tubes, heart monitors……it's a fever dream gone terribly
ugly. Ragged breathing, tortured moans, restless motion. A cancer ward. It's a
waiting game, and Amy has had enough. She knows her cancer has metastasized, and
knows there will not be another remission. She wants to go home.
Against
doctor's advice, she checks herself out of the hospital and goes home to the
faces she loves: her beloved Ned, her sweet Melinda and Jason, her four
grandchildren, and a myriad of faces that, as the days pass, are becoming
increasingly difficult to differentiate. But it doesn't matter any more. She is
surrounded by love. She has lived with love and she is now preparing to die with
love. Amy knows her life has been full and happy; she has been more fortunate
than most; and she has no fear of death. She fears no hell and anticipates no
heaven. She knows this is the end, and she has made her peace with it.
The
pain is steadily getting worse, and she wants to say her good-byes before it
becomes unbearable. She has the pills to end her life when she is ready.
Strangely, that knowledge is comforting. She feels in control. She plans to be
alone with Ned when the time comes for her final, dreamless sleep. But right now
she is enjoying the reminiscing, the photo albums and the hugs. Everyone knows
they are saying a final good-bye. This is humanism.
The
casket is closed and the first speaker stands in the front of the room. She
absent-mindedly smoothes her thinning gray hair, and begins to talk. Her voice
is quavering, but determined. "You know, when I was a teenager, I was there
in that crowded living room, so many years ago, when a very tiny Amy fought to
take her first steps. I was also there with her, at the end, when she fought the
pain as she said good-bye. There is no doubt the first was more fun than the
second." Nervous laughter. "But if ever there was a loving child and a
wonderful woman, Amy was it. She was a delight to be around, and I remember once
when…."
This
is humanism.
© 1999 Judith Hayes
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