A Matter of Life and Death
Baxter Southerland was a man who was working himself into an early grave. With no wife, family or close friends and no social life outside the small but successful insurance agency he had inherited from his father, Baxter took the word workaholic to new levels, laboring twelve to sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. When he was not trying to convince a healthy young man or woman to purchase a new life insurance policy or a middle-aged couple to increase the value of an existing one, he kept busy by studying the latest tax laws and remaining abreast of retirement benefits, annuities, trust funds, and so forth. During his "leisure" time, the unmarried insurance agent preferred reading actuarial tables to novels, chose to listen to self-improvement audio tapes rather than any form of music and enjoyed watching motivational videos instead of movies or television programs.
In his fiftieth year, the hectic pace and lack of proper diet and exercise began to take their toll on Baxter's health. One day while rushing from one appointment to another, he stopped by a roadside lunch truck and purchased a couple of chili dogs with chopped raw onions. These were consumed in a minimal number of bites and quickly washed down with a can of Coke. Not long after Baxter pulled back onto the highway, he experienced some discomfort in his chest.
Must be those damned chili dogs, he thought.
He tried to make himself belch to relieve any painful gas trapped in his upper digestive tract, but even after he burped the indigestion would not go away.
Baxter looked at his watch. Seeing that he had a few minutes to spare before calling on his next client, he pulled into Ziegler's Pharmacy to buy a package of Pepcid. As he waited in line at the checkout counter, he could not help staring at the woman behind the register. She was exquisite! His reaction to her was unusual since Baxter had never shown much interest in the opposite sex before—except as potential customers. Why then was he so attracted to this woman?
When the elderly man in front of him paid for his various prescriptions and walked away, Baxter put his box of antacid tablets on the counter and reached for his wallet.
"Hello," the attractive cashier greeted him with a captivating smile. "How are you today?"
"Not too bad. But I made the mistake of having chili dogs for lunch, and now I've got a wicked case of heartburn."
"You'd better watch that. Heartburn is often a sign of a more serious condition."
The insurance salesman raised his eyebrows and stared at the woman. Was it Ziegler's policy to have its cashiers dispense medical advice?
As if she had been able to read his mind, the woman behind the register apologized.
"I'm sorry. My late husband was a doctor, and I often find myself quoting him about one health matter or another."
"You're a widow?" he asked foolishly.
"Yes. I've been on my own for the past eight years."
"I'm on my own, too," he confessed.
"Oh? Widowed or divorced?"
"Neither. I've never been married."
Now it was the cashier's turn to raise her eyebrows.
"What's the old saying?" Baxter laughed. "'I never found the right girl'? But the truth is I never even had the time to look for her. Between going to college and running my own business, there was little opportunity for romance."
For the first time in his life, a feeling of loneliness overcame Southerland, an inexplicable yearning for love and companionship.
"That's odd," he said.
"What's odd?"
"My indigestion is suddenly gone, but I suppose I'd better take the Pepcid anyway. With all the greasy fast food I eat, I'm sure it'll come in handy eventually."
"You're a junk food junkie, huh? When was the last time you had a decent, nutritious meal?" she asked.
Then in a completely uncharacteristic move, Baxter replied, "Is that an invitation?"
The woman blushed and shyly cast her eyes down, but after a few seconds, she raised them again and looked up at him.
"Everyone tells me that I'm a good cook," she admitted. "And if you're interested, I could use the company."
* * *
Soon after that chance meeting at the drugstore, a romance blossomed between Baxter Southerland and Dana Goodwin. Within a few months, the two were inseparable, and it was not long before Baxter began giving serious consideration to marrying the beautiful widow. Even though they had been seeing each other for less than six months, they both felt it was time to make a commitment. Neither of them was getting any younger, and since both were comfortably well-off, there were no financial considerations to block their union.
A small, informal wedding was planned for the second Saturday in December, but during the middle of September, the groom again had an attack of what he believed to be either heartburn or indigestion.
"And what did you eat this time?" Dana admonished her fiancé. "Was it a bacon double cheeseburger with fried onions, a pepperoni and sausage pizza or the nachos grande with diablo sauce and jalapeño peppers?"
"None of the above," he replied honestly. "I had a tossed salad with lite honey mustard dressing and a bottle of water. You know I promised to cut down on fatty foods."
"Did you have cucumbers in your salad? Sometimes they even repeat on me."
"No, just lettuce, tomatoes and croutons. I didn't even have onion or cheese. Tomatoes can be very acidic. I wonder if they are what's giving me the heartburn."
"Well, take a Pepcid for now, but I really wish you'd see a doctor."
"Oh, Dana, I know you mean well, but it's probably nothing to worry about."
"I agree. But we'll both feel a lot more at ease when a doctor confirms that prognosis."
Baxter put off going to his physician for another two months, even though he frequently suffered from chest pains regardless of what he ate. He did his best to hide his discomfort from Dana, but she eventually learned the truth.
"You are going to go to the doctor, even if I have to make the appointment for you," she emphatically announced.
"Okay, okay!" he laughed, throwing his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. "If I knew you were going to be such a nag, I wouldn't have proposed to you."
"It's not too late to change your mind," she teased him back. "We're not married yet."
"Are you kidding?" he asked, taking her into his arms. Then he added quite seriously, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. If I lost you now, I don't think I could go on."
"I feel the same way. That's why I want you to go to the doctor and see what's giving you those chest pains."
Baxter finally yielded to Dana's none-too-gentle persuasion and telephoned his primary care physician. He was given an appointment for the week following their honeymoon cruise to New England and Nova Scotia.
"Can't he see you any sooner?" the bride-to-be asked.
"I was lucky to get this appointment. Dr. Silverman normally has a much longer waiting list for check-ups."
"But this isn't just a routine check-up. You've got an undiagnosed medical condition that could be serious."
"Which I've already had for several months. I honestly doubt waiting another few weeks will kill me."
"I hope not. If you die on our honeymoon, I'll never forgive you."
* * *
On the eve of their wedding, Dana and Baxter spent the day in New York. They went to Rockefeller Center to see the tree and the ice skaters, after which they took in the Christmas Show at Radio City Music Hall. Finally, they ate a romantic dinner in a quaint restaurant in the Village.
"Okay, Cinderella," Baxter joked, as he held the car door open for Dana. "We have to take this Mercedes back to New Jersey before midnight; otherwise it will revert to a pumpkin and eight white mice."
Less than an hour later, Baxter pulled up in front of Dana's home.
"Tomorrow night this time you'll be Mrs. Baxter Southerland," he said dreamily.
"Did it ever occur to you that I might be a feminist and want to keep my own name?"
"Nah. That's not you. If anything, you're more of a hyphen person: Dana Goodwin-Southerland. It has a certain ring to it."
"I don't think so," she laughed. "It's a little too long for ...."
She stopped midsentence when she saw Baxter collapse against the car door, grabbing his chest and struggling to catch his breath.
"Baxter! Are you all right?"
"Call ... nine ... one ...."
Dana had her cell phone out before he finished speaking.
"They're on their way, darling," she cried, as she loosened his tie and opened the top buttons of his shirt so he could breathe easier. Then she helped him inside the townhouse, where he fell backward into her antique Chippendale wing chair.
"No," he cried through gasping breaths. "Not ... now!"
"Hush, darling. Don't waste your strength. Just lie back and try to relax."
"Don't wanna ... die. Not ... now ... that I've ... found ... you ..., that ... I've got ... everything ... to live ... for."
"Stop it, Baxter! You're not going to die. You're going to be fine."
Baxter Southerland's life flashed before his eyes: a never-ending series of insurance sales, business meetings, empty nights and lost opportunities. He felt himself slipping away, sinking deeper and deeper into a black abyss. Hadn't those people brought back to life from the brink of death claimed to have seen a bright light on the other side of a tunnel? What terrible sin had he committed that he deserved to be banished into the darkness?
Fight it! his mind screamed. "Do not go gentle into that good night! Rage, rage against the dying of the light."1
As Dylan Thomas's words flashed through his distraught mind, in the distance Baxter heard the wailing sirens of the ambulance and police car. Three paramedics were soon running through the door with a gurney.
"Dana ... I ..."
He could not finish telling her he loved her. One paramedic strapped a portable respirator over his mouth while the other two hoisted him onto the gurney.
He looked at Dana one last time before he drifted off into unconsciousness.
* * *
Emergency room personnel worked tirelessly over the man's lifeless body, giving the patient artificial respiration and CPR. Finally, a technician wheeled in the defibrillator.
"Clear," the doctor yelled as he placed the paddles on the man's chest.
The body jumped up off the table.
No, not now!
Baxter's soul, suspended in limbo between life and death, fought to hold on.
The doctor put his stethoscope on the man's chest. There was still no heartbeat.
"Again!" he cried, as the paddles were once more applied to the lifeless chest.
"Clear!"
No! NO! Dana, I love you.
The heart monitor sounded an electronic beep, and a zigzag appeared in the flat green line. The patient's heart was beating. The doctor administered an injection that increased the heart rate. It was still too early to tell, but it looked as though the man would make it.
* * *
The nurse in the cardiac intensive care unit kept a watchful eye on the new patient. His condition seemed to have stabilized, but he was not out of danger yet. In the early morning hours, he started to stir. Finally regaining consciousness, Baxter slowly opened his eyes.
"Dana," he called faintly.
"You just rest, Mr. Southerland," the nurse warned. "You're in the intensive care unit at St. Michael's. You've had a heart attack, and you're quite lucky to be alive."
"Dana ... where is she?"
The nurse checked his chart. According to the hospital's records, the patient was single.
"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know who Dana is. Is she a relative? A friend?"
"She's ...."
A memory was trying to break through his subconscious mind, like a baby bird pecking its way out of an eggshell. Baxter fought to keep that memory suppressed.
"Dana is my ... We were going to be ...."
The memory finally broke through. There was no Dana! There never had been. He had spent his entire adult life immersed in his job, to the exclusion of all else.
"I stopped for a quick lunch," he said, reliving the final moments before his near-fatal heart attack. "I ate two chili dogs and then started having chest pains soon after. So I drove to the nearest drug store to buy some Pepcid."
"That's correct, Mr. Southerland. You collapsed in Ziegler's Pharmacy," the nurse said, filling in the missing pieces. "Mr. Ziegler immediately phoned 911, and the ambulance brought you here to the emergency room."
"I had the strangest ... dream."
"You went into cardiac arrest. We had to use the defibrillator to bring you back."
"Back? Back from where?" he asked rhetorically as tears burned his eyes.
"I don't know," the nurse said honestly. "But aren't you glad to be here?"
"No, I'm not," he admitted forlornly. "I have no idea where I was, but for the first time in my life, I was happy. What was that line Sydney Carton said at the end of A Tale of Two Cities? 'It's a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.'"2
"You sleep now, Mr. Southerland," the nurse said, dimming the light above his bed. "It's a rest you'll go to eventually—one that awaits us all."
1"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night," © Dylan Thomas.
2Quote from A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.
Salem, I'd hardly call going to the Godiva boutique a matter of life and death.
