Bill answered, “I expect James was angry with us. We failed him. He is probably very depressed.”
I dialed Susy at the hospital: “Susy, hallelujah! I have a message for James.”
“Pat, it's five o'clock in the morning. Are you all right?”
“I'm fine—sorry to wake you. But please go over to James' bed, be sure he's looking at you and say one word to him: thermostat.”
In the hospital later in the morning, I spilled some champagne on James' forehead: “I'm drinking this toast for you.”
Bill, Susy and I clinked glasses.
Bill took the bottle and said, “Let's remember that we have received only one word from James so far, and we didn't handle that one very well. If James doesn't send a strong, clear message that he wants to live, the hospital will find an opportunity to let him die. We have to get the transmission of a complete sentence down, letter-perfect.”
Bill bent over to look into James' eyes: “I suggest the sentence, `I want to live.' That would be definite and something we could handle without a fatal mistake. Also, if your eye movements don't work out perfectly, I can fudge a little since I know what you're going to say.”
The door banged open and another speech therapist entered with two interns bringing up the rear. Bill was standing in the middle of the room with his mouth open, holding the bottle of champagne in his hand.
“This is not a good day to question Dr. Hall,” he said.
The speech therapist responded in disgust, “No alcohol in the hospital, as you know.” Then he hunched forward to peer at James' dead, expressionless face. The two interns were huddled near the door, looking apprehensive. This had the macabre atmosphere of putting a dead man on trial.
Bill cut in smoothly, “I suggest that we allow Dr. Hall to transmit a message on these panels we have here.”
The therapist said, “I have been authorized to make a final determination here. Why don't we use the plastic spellboard approved by my department? The question is `Do you want to live?'” He thrust it in front of James' face.
Bill moved to the therapist's side. “Good,” Bill said. “You hold the board, and I will use the pointer. Is this the group of letters you are looking at, James? Good. Now, is this letter to which I am pointing the one you want?” James' eyes were floating around as he blinked. “No. This one? No. How about this one?” For a second, James' eyes seemed to focus. “Yes, it is the letter I.”
The next letter was D. The message was supposed to be “I want to live.”
I was thinking, “Why doesn't Bill fake it, help James to stay with the message? Yes, Bill is trying to suggest W, but James keeps bringing him back to D. This is not the time to get confused, James.”
The next letter was E.
The next letter was M, then A. I D E M A—30 minutes spent on just five letters already. Time was running out.
Then N, then D. I DEMAND. Come on, James, don't try to be smart.
Then T and O. Then L and I and V and E. I DEMAND TO LIVE.
But more letters were coming: an A, an S, another S.
The next letter was an H, then and O an an L....
The therapist dropped the board.
Bill picked it up and said, “Let's see what the next letter is.” E.
I DEMAND TO LIVE ASSHOLE.
I shouted, “He has risen. Hallelujah!”
The Ouija Spellboard
Now James could finally communicate with us directly. He had his plastic spellboard going 24 hours a day and was driving everyone crazy. James wanted to do nothing but communicate constantly. I dropped the spellboard on James' bed and rubbed my sore hands. I hadn't yet made the transition from believing James' mind was functioning to being hit in the face with the reality of it.
I sighed and said, “Don't read it aloud, Susy. Let me read it to myself.”
Susy reluctantly handed over her husband's message, looking as though she wasn't sure she could trust me with it.
I've been thinking 24 hours a day since stroke. Afraid not to. Mind unraveled when didn't. Didn't see much at first but could soon hear everything. When U said something I would reply, no one heard. Repeating conversations to myself kept mind together.
This was like getting messages from someone who had “passed over.”
Here is what I was thinking from the time of the stroke. Silence. Blackness. Not breathing. Touch. Nothing to touch. Up or down. Nothing to feel. Where are legs, hands. Nothing to feel. No pain. Senses gone. Dead. Hear sounds with no source can see. Not clearly. Ceiling. Slides past. Fuzzy. Can't focus. Whiteness. Is this death?
No! Don't want to die. Can't believe this. I'm somewhere between life and death.
To prove it. Will now tell U what U were saying. Exact words. Pat said I'm like a drowning man holding onto life preserver. Right?
I plopped down in a chair and closed my eyes. What had I said? Yet the phrase about the life preserver rang in my memory. Yes. I had said James was like a drowning man holding onto a life preserver.
The spellboard urged us on
Go back to when my colleagues met in my hospital room to plan how to murder me. What I heard in different pontifications was: Kill! Kill!
Tell them they're wrong, Pat, before it's too late. Don't let them kill me! God! Don't let them kill me!
Pat, find that stupid paper I wrote and destroy it.
I exclaimed, “Then what we've really been discovering all this time is that the mind can do without a body.”
Me. I'm the proof.
Bill said to the air, “Who are you besides a haunt, or a ghost?”
