And how should I begin?
What do you say to a dying man?
That question was bouncing around my brain as I pulled into the parking lot of the Java Dave’s coffee shop on NW 10 a few weeks ago.
What would I say to Jim Chastain, whom I’d never met before?
Typical metatalk was fraught with peril. “How are you” seemed an insensitive question. “What’s up” — a far blander choice — could come across as flippant. Even if it didn’t, what then? “So, um, I hear you’ve got cancer …?”
I didn’t have long to worry about it. I could see Jim getting out of his car as I parked. His right arm was amputated a few years ago, so he wasn’t hard to spot.
I took in the rest of him. Jim is a slim guy with trendy rectangular glasses and graying hair that doesn’t want to lay flat. He was wearing a multicolored sweater with horizontal stripes, khaki pants and brown leather shoes with thick rubber soles. His right sleeve wasn’t visible; it was inside-out and tucked into his pants.
As I approached him, the question of what to say slipped away, replaced by another thought: “Offer him your left hand to shake. He doesn’t have a right. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t screw this up.”
The handshake was successful, the introduction uneventful. A few minutes later, we were sitting across from each other at a small table. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I felt clumsy.
A couple days earlier, some of The Oklahoman’s top editors had asked me to do a series of stories on Jim, who has terminal cancer. I’d agreed. In theory, the project seemed like a great idea — spend as much time as possible with Jim and his family, get to know them and document his journey toward death, hoping to learn something about life in the process.
Sitting across from him, though, the project seemed much more daunting. Death is the great taboo, and no one wants to think about it. I know I don’t. The thing that distinguishes us from lesser creatures — awareness of our own mortality — is the thing we hide from the most. Better to go shopping. Better to watch sports.
Distractions evaporate when you’re with someone like Jim, someone for whom death is no longer an academic matter, someone who knows that his expiration date is drawing near. That’s why I was so nervous around him. That’s why I was scared.
But as it turns out, Jim’s not a frightening fellow. He’s a nice guy — a husband, father, lawyer, poet, author, neighbor and more. He’s only 44 … well, 45 in a week or so. He’s gotten a raw deal, but he’s not burying himself in grief or depression and is trying to make the best of the worst situation. He’s approaching the end with a fighting spirit, a sense of humor and a resolve to live as much as he can in whatever time he’s got left. He’s still hopeful he can beat this thing.
I spent 90 minutes or so talking to Jim in that coffee shop. We’ve racked up a bunch of hours since then.
I know the answer to my original question now.
What do you say to a dying man? Exactly what you’d say to anyone else.
