Death’s door opens new look at our lives

Today's major think piece won't give you that testosterone rush you've come to expect from reading my swill.

If this column usually helps start your day, skip it for now. Read it tonight after spending quality time with your main squeeze and your kids - because today we look at death.

Mom was hit by a van on Dec. 19. After seven weeks of trying to rage against the dying of the light, she finally went gentle into that good night. (Dear reader, references to Dylan Thomas' 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night' will be kept to an absolute minimum. You're welcome.)

It's tough to rage against dying when you're enmeshed in a web of tubes, wires and morphine - in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar institution while staring up at pleasant strangers with no last names as they touch, handle, poke, scan, squeeze, jab, cut, remove, suction, stitch, wipe, tape and dab parts of you.

And that was just her first day.

Death magnifies everything. Each word spoken during the wretched journey inadvertently could be the key that unlocks near-forgotten excess baggage that family members conveniently had stored out of sight and out of mind for decades.

Any emotion can percolate to the surface in seconds and then evaporate as quickly as a tear.

The human body can be quite resilient, even after being blindsided by violent trauma, invaded by the hospital's staff and staph, deadened by painkillers - and paralyzed.

She had to be kept perfectly still during the twilight so the breathing machine could do its job to the max. Unfortunately, when every muscle is stilled, even an eyelid cannot unseal. (We were with her, but was she still with us?)

Some of the angels nursing the ICU transients at 'Presby' (UPMC Presbyterian) reminded us that a patient's hearing can be the last sense to go. One theorized that some motionless guests respond by struggling vainly to open their eyes.

That may explain why, when her offspring spoke loudly to the patient in bed 18, sometimes there was a tear in the corner of her left eyelid.

St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral provided support, prayers, final Ccommunion and mournful cantors in black robes. And the paperwork so that she could be next to Dad. Most waved goodbye with the thumb and next two fingers of the right hand - touching forehead, chest, right shoulder and then left. The incense smelled sweet.

Some TV talking heads spoke of a sense of loss Sunday, as the ashes and dust of Three Rivers Stadium floated to their final resting place. Concrete can have that effect on people.

Shortly after the funeral, an episode of 'The Wonder Years' aired on a cable channel. The nuclear family was exasperated with Dad because he couldn't bring himself to sell the bomb of a station wagon that had transported them for years.

Eventually, they realized he wasn't being unrealistic about its true worth. To him, that seemingly worthless hunk of junk symbolized his family. Letting go was hard. When the tow truck finally arrived, I had to shut it off.

It was going to haul away more than scrap metal.

Dimitri Vassilaros is the morning radio talk host on News Radio 1170 WWVA. His e-mail address is dimitriv@stargate.net