Allen's Alley by Fred Stembottom

My wife is a Registered Nurse who specializes in Oncology care with an emphasis on Hospice care. She has a special touch with the dying that elicits the greatest of praise from families who have had to pass through the deepest valleys of sorrow and witness the passing of a loved one.

The hospital she works at is in a first-ring suburb of Minneapolis that the passage of time has made surprisingly mixed demographically. I often think that her recognized ability to connect to Jew, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, None-of-the-above alike stems from her avowed Atheism. Being a part of no-one's religion somehow makes her welcome in everyone's family as she administers her profoundly competent care.

She must deal as well with the complete spectrum of political adherents as the 1950's suburbs become - in a way - the new inner city.

That's where this story arises.

A she tells it, there is a point in Hospice care that every patient passes through. Some quite early in their stay. Others fending it off until the last hour. That point is the patient's own acceptance that all that can be done has been done. That they won't be getting well. That the hoped-for miracle will not be arriving. And that they, like so many before them, will be leaving.

If that point has been passed early enough in a patient's stay, many of them have a short time in which they often wish to talk over their lives. Many put in a last rally as they revisit wonderful and, and sometimes, regret-filled memories. My wife is always on hand at this time to listen, laugh and console - the families as well as the patient.

Just the other day, she tells me, she had been there to see a dying woman in her 70's pass through the acceptance point and move on to chat about her life in general. My wife left this nice lady to the intimacies of her family and turned to her other patients. Some hours later, after the woman's family had gone for the day, the nursing station received a call light from the woman's room-mate. Getting to the room revealed that the room-mate was worried about her neighbor who, after a fairly pleasant day, was now crying uncontrollably. This is not an unknown type of thing to happen in hospice care and my wife was on-the-spot to see what might have happened and how she could help. My wife was startled at what the woman had to say: "I've had a good life. I have no real regrets. But I worry now that I won't get into heaven." Unafraid of these kind of deathbed musings, my wife immediately asked her why. How can that be?

This was the woman's answer: "I voted for that damn Bush! ...Twice!

My wife assured her that no-one is denied peace for their mistakes in this life. Especially not on the basis of any vote for President! But the woman added that she was worried she would be punished for those 2 particular votes because Bush "has been such a disaster to the whole world".
My wife suggested that if answers are needed that there already is someone slated to answer for "that damn Bush" - Mr. Bush himself. This eased the poor woman's mind and she completed her journey much more at peace.

I find this story funny, in a way. Death-bed regrets have launched a thousand hoary, old jokes and ancient comedy sketches. Just change the name of the president and you can imagine the words "I voted for that damn Roosevelt! ...Twice!" as a punchline from a "dying"character with a name like "Harlequin P. Winstead III" on a scratchy recording of a 1940's radio comedy.

This, however, was real. And it shouldn't be. No real-life person should be having real-life deathbed regrets that involve lines better delivered by the character voices on The Fred Allen Show or The Jack Benny Program.

Among the more cherished prerogatives we have as Americans, despite going unmentioned in the Bill of Rights, is our presumed right to take politics lightly. That what happens in Washington stays in Washington and that reason (or more importantly reasonableness) will prevail among our Elected Representatives allowing the Represented to return, after only minor interruptions, to our bass-boats and scrap-booking parties.

Now...I'll argue that the very assumption of politics being self-regulating (thanks to some kind of Divine American Exceptionalism) is what has gotten us into so much trouble. It was just a matter of time before someone - or group of someones - would see the possibilities for exploitation of the political ignorance that is generated by living that assumption.

I have annoyed people for going on 30 years now , telling them that democracy assumes a populace that takes the time to check-in regularly and that voting is just the paperwork you fill-out on the first day of your new job: citizen. And yet, I still find a warm affection lives in my heart for that all-American assumption that our elected officials will still manage a certain minimum level of honorable behavior even if too many of us work too many hours at our jobs or watch too many DVD's.

If the the entire oversight committee known as The Citizenry should take a collective trip to Vegas, I think we still assume that the kids in D.C. are "good kids". They might use our inattention to have a kegger, smoke pot and generally stain the carpet but, we trust, they won't set the house on fire, strip the mini-van for parts or harm small animals.

Until now. This time, having over-stayed at the Mall of America, we return and immediately know that we have been away too long and too often. The house partially collapsed. An oily sheen on the reflecting pond . Men with rubber gloves and respirators tending to the dead and wounded.

Regrets. Shame. Enough for everyone and extending to all - including a dying woman worried that she may not enter heaven.

This must end. Soon. And returning to our First Job of citizen is the only thing that will end it.