LaVie
by Mike Gordon of “Phish”
July 2003
<img src="http://www.phish.com/_content/mike/mikes_0703.gif"align=right>
There was a tube going into Pierre LaVie’s nose. There were the distant voices of doctors and the beepings of machines. Adding salt to the wound, Pierre began to see the tunnel with light at end that he had read about. A chill and calm began to drape over his skin as he realized that death was close. Then suddenly he also realized:
“Shit, my clothes are still in the washing machine.” Though paralyzed, Pierre tried to force the back of his tongue to curve or stretch in a way that would allow the lower neck muscles, as coupled with the work of the abdomen, to force the larynx to vibrate enough to say, “Tell Gabby to put the clothes in the dryer.” The thought of three days of mildew… and maybe they would then get thrown out, and that T-shirt with the big X on it – “that’s the one people would remember me by – someone should keep that, and…”
“Barnonymous crucial is seventectoring,” the doctor seemed to be yelling, as monitored by a numbing auditory sense. “Oh God… now that I think about it,” his brain continued, "I forgot to sign my will. I mean I would have signed it yesterday, but it needed to be notarized and the notary public was closed Mondays, so I didn’t sign it. What does this mean? That the state will divide up my assets as they see fit? Oh God, that’s horrible. I have to muster up the energy to speak. Oh that light is getting bigger now; it is clearly the light I read about. Okay: try to speak. Try to speak. Damn my numb mouth! Fuck. Damn it! “Barnoymous crucial asn’t seventectorous.”
"Oh shit. I just realized something else: I forgot to tell Gabby that I do love her after all. That stuff about not loving her was just my own weird sense of humor. It is so important that she knows that. I am going to, right now, I swear to God, concentrate hard enough to break through this paralysis and make my mouth move and tell the nurses to tell Gabby that I love her a lot, and those will end up being my last words instead of – oh God – did I really say, “leave me alone, Gabby,” as my very last words? That’s horrible. I will say it now. I can say it. I am going to move my mouth. Damn it! Vocalize! Oh fuck. Fuck! That light is getting so bright now. I wish I could say one last thing. At least, I would say this, if I could just talk: I would say, “Please tell everyone, for me, tell everyone that one person who has been down the tunnel most of the way is saying to the rest of the world that you must say the things you want to say early enough because you may not have a chance. You may be paralyzed on your deathbed. And there are amazing things that no one knows because people that realize them don’t have a chance to report them: like the fact that this tunnel is an exact replica of the birth experience but backwards. And that this is the only time in life that birth can be clearly remembered. This is important information for me to tell people. This could help mankind, damn it. Oh why can’t I talk? I can’t stand that light; it’s enveloping me. It’s strong. Oh wait, no… it’s actually a nice feeling. It’s a good light. It is a nurturing, cathartic light. This isn’t bad. This is nice. Now there is no more light.”
Four hours later, Pierre LaVie woke up in a hospital bed. Dr. Pencoil leaned over his face and spoke.
“You feeling okay? I’m sorry we had to aim that bright light at your face, it’s the only way we could operate. And we knew you were partially conscious, and the light probably hurt your eyes.”
For a split second, Pierre wondered if he’d be able to talk. “Oh…oh, I see, yes the light. Well…wow…I thought…never mind.” The doctor smiled. “Oh, can you pass me that phone, I need to make a call.”
“Sure, and I’ve put the TV on for you to,” Pencoil recoiled. There was an episode of Get Smart coming on as Pierre was dialing. It was a funny moment: Agent 99 was stuck in a phone booth and… “Oh the hell with the call,” thought Pierre, and he settled in to watch the episode.
