Oblivio: Stories and such by Michael Barrish

Skip to primary content

The Black Knight | Aug 08 2000

On November 18th, 1999, my great-uncle Al Rubin died of a heart attack while attempting to lift his wife, my great-aunt Dot, from their living room floor. Al was 92; Dot had recently turned 90.

Actually it’s possible that Al died on the 17th; all we know for certain is that his body was found on the evening of the 20th, as much as three days after his death. Husband and wife lay sprawled on their carpet until a neighbor noticed the newspapers accumulating outside their door and became concerned.

Al and Dot were found lying foot-to-foot, their heads at opposite ends of the living room. Al was naked; apparently he had been washing himself when Dot fell and called out for help. A heavy wooden coffee table was turned on its side, most likely toppled by Al during his fall. Dot was alive but badly disoriented.

In the hospital my mother and her sister Dee (Dot’s closest living relatives) agreed to spare Dot the news of Al’s death until she recovered. That is, assuming she recovered, for she was in critical condition, suffering the effects of severe dehydration.

Two days later Dot was alert enough to ask for Al. Where was he? Why wasn’t he visiting her? To these questions, Dot was told that Al was in another part of the hospital, or in another hospital altogether (I’ve heard different versions), and that he would visit when he could.

I don’t think most people would object to the lie, and yet I do object. I ask myself, “Would I want to be lied to like that? Would I want my family to conceal the death of my spouse for fear that the news might kill me?” The answer is no. It is not so much the lie that irks me, but the underlying presumption, born of love and concern, that when sufficiently old or infirm, we can be stripped of the right to the truth. We treat children that way; we tell them stories to protect them. To lie to Dot was to treat her like a child.

Am I being unfair? Most people would say I am. After all, by withholding the truth, a greater purpose was served: my great-aunt’s life was saved; or at the least, not endangered any further. Or so goes the argument.

Kant believed that no lie is ever justified and that we have an obligation to the truth, even if it means leading a murderer to his victim. My own beliefs fall somewhere between those of my family and Kant: I would lie to the murderer but not to my great-aunt, believing that my great-aunt deserves respect, while the murderer does not. Which is to say that I equate truthfulness with respect.

When Dot was deemed well enough to hear the truth, my mother and Dee told her what had happened. “Do you remember falling?” my mother asked. “Do you remember that Al tried to lift you?” Dot remembered nothing. Moreover she had no idea what she was doing in the hospital. When told that Al was dead, that he had died trying to lift her, Dot showed no emotion. Dee, remembering back, believes that Dot never understood. I would go further and say that the thought of Al dying was not something Dot was capable of thinking. She knew what mortality was, and she knew Al was mortal, but she could not complete the syllogism.

A few days later I arrived in Philadelphia and visited Dot in the hospital. She was the same as always, if diminished. We made small talk. No mention was made of Al until Dot asked me how I was doing and I said that my heart was heavy because I missed Al. Her response: “So what’s the weather like in Cambridge?”

This didn’t surprise me. Over the years Dot and Al had refused to accept or even acknowledge their deteriorating ability to care for themselves. Despite failing health, they rejected all offers of assistance. Since neither could cook anything more elaborate than canned soup, they would eat in restaurants each night, and Al would drive, to the collective horror of my family. (Many years before, Dot’s sister Rose, my grandmother, lost her second husband, Andy, in a bizarre car accident in which Andy somehow fell beneath the wheels of his own careening vehicle, running himself over.)

As painful as this was to witness, I also admired it. It took great strength for Dot and Al to be so persistently stupid. I am convinced they survived as long as they did because they refused to face the truth of their situation. Their final years together – sad, pitiful years, but years together – were testament to the power of denial.

I am reminded of the battle between King Arthur and the Black Knight in the film Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Arthur slices off the Black Knight’s arm, but the Knight insists on fighting on, saying that the wound is “but a scratch.” “Well, what’s that, then?” asks Arthur, pointing to the severed arm on the ground. “I’ve had worse,” grunts the Knight. Arthur chops off the Knight’s remaining arm, and then a leg, and yet the Knight is loathe to concede. Arthur is incredulous. “What are you going to do, bleed on me?” “I’m invincible!” cries the Knight. “You’re a loony,” says Arthur.

My great-aunt is a loony. Living in a nursing home now, she remains unable, or unwilling, to admit that her husband is dead. To hear her tell it, Al is forever indisposed, puttering in another part of the building. Recently, Dee, exasperated by such comments, reminded Dot that she had attended Al’s funeral and had watched his casket being lowered into the ground. Dee expected Dot to claim that no such funeral had ever taken place, but Dot went her one better. “That wasn’t him,” she said.

In the end King Arthur chops off the Black Knight’s remaining leg, and still the Knight refuses to admit defeat. As the King disappears into the forest, the Knight (now a legless, armless torso-plus-head) shouts, “Running away, eh? You yellow bastard! Come back here and take what’s coming to you. I’ll bite your legs off!”