The Thanatos Syndrome

Please send them to us! I swear to you you won’t be sorry. We will all be happy about it! I promise you, and I know that you believe me, that we will take care of him, her—we will even call on you to help us take care of them!—and you will not have to make such a decision. God will bless you for it and you will offend no one except the Great Prince Satan, who rules the world. That is all.”
    Silence.
    â€œOh, there is something else of the utmost importance I must tell you—”
    But suddenly he breaks off, frowns, touches his lip as if he has forgotten what he was going to say. Then, frowning all the harder, he appears to sink into thought. Seconds pass.
    This time the pause does not end. Perhaps ten seconds pass. Already there is consternation, exchanged glances, murmurings, shifting about in the seats. Ten seconds is a long time. Then perhaps twenty seconds pass. Now there is anxiety.
    When a speaker who is supposed to speak and then make an end to the speaking, stops speaking inadvertently, like an actor going up in his lines, or a young preacher who has a lapse, his audience at first grows restive, is embarrassed for him. Perhaps there are a few titters. Then the audience develops pure anxiety. The anxiety is worse than any offense the speaker may have given.
    Behind me, two doctors and the representative of United Way and the Chief Leo of the Lions Club are offended. One says to the other, “Church is out.” Another replies, “For us too.”
    All four leave.
    Other people begin to murmur and stir about anxiously.
    Only Father Smith, lost in thought, does not appear anxious.
    Max and I exchange glances. There is the slightest upward movement of his eyes. We understand each other. We have exchanged such a glance in group, past a patient. I rise and hunch over toward the priest with the air of a deacon or usher who knows what he is doing.
    â€œFather,” I say in a low but ordinary voice, “let’s get on with the Mass.” There are patients, one learns from experience, who will simply do what they are told, never mind Freud and his “non-directive” therapy, and there are times when it is better to tell them.
    â€œOf course,” replies the priest, giving a start. “You assist me.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI said, you assist me.”
    â€œBut, Father, you know very well—” I am looking around for Milton Guidry, his crewcut assistant. No sign of him.
    â€œSure, I know,” says the priest. “But assist me, anyhow.”
    â€œAll right. But I only remember the old Mass.”
    â€œThat will do.”
    He turns and kneels on the platform step. I kneel beside him like an altar boy.
    â€œI will go up to the altar of God,” says the priest, holding the chalice.
    â€œTo God who gives joy to my youth,” I reply.

13. ELLEN IS RIGHT AND WRONG about Father Smith. He did not “have his hooks” in me. He only asks me to assist him when he’s out of it, needs help, Milton is sick and can’t bring him the bread and wine.
    The hospice opens and down he comes from the fire tower in his right mind and very much in charge. Very much his old wiry, vigorous self, he jokes with the children, listens to the endless stories of the senile, talks at great length with the dying. He calls on me only when the depression and terrors of his AIDS patients are more than he can handle. We do little more than visit with them, these haggard young men, listen, speak openly, we to them, they to us, and we to each other in front of them, about them and about our own troubles, we being two old drunks and addled besides. They advise us about alcohol, diet, and suchlike. It seems to help them and us. At least they laugh at us.
    But when he invited me to serve Mass routinely, because I was visiting the hospice early every morning, I refused. It is easy to say no at the hospice, because honesty is valued above all. I told him the truth: that since I no longer was sure what I believe, didn’t think much about religion, participation in Mass would seem to be deceitful.
    He nodded cheerfully, as if he already knew.
    â€œDon’t worry,” he said, doing a few isometrics in the hall, pushing and pulling with his hands. “It is to be expected. It is only necessary to wait and to be of good heart. It is not your fault.”
    â€œHow is that, Father?” I ask him curiously.
    â€œYou have been deprived of the