The Old Grey Mule

A true story about my dad.

 

The news from the doctor was grim--dad had terminal cancer. The exact type wasn’t known, and they weren’t going to run any more tests on a 90 year-old man than they had to. He had long complained to his doctor about his intestinal problems, but nothing had ever been done. He was old-- right? Everyone dies of something, eventually. He had somewhere between a month and six months to live, so the doctor said.

                “You’re the oldest. Will you tell him?” I asked my sister, Mary.

                “Why, no, Sammy, I’m not telling him!”

                “He has to know.”

                She looked away, frowned and said, “I can’t tell him.”

                “He’s dying, Mary. Don’t you think he deserves to know? What about you, Patsy?” I asked my next older sister.

                “No, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t,” said Patsy, not making eye contact.

                “If it was me lying there, I’d want to know,” I stressed.

                “But he’ll be happier during his last days if we don’t tell him!” whispered Mary.

                I continued to argue. “He might have something to say to someone. There might be some kind of arrangements he’ll want to make. I mean, who knows?”

                No one wanted to tell him, and that wasn’t acceptable to me. I’m always the one who rocks the boat, it seems. Always the one who isn’t willing to let things be--why is that?  Mother always told me I was just a smaller version of my father, but she was wrong. It was her genes in me that made me refuse to roll over and take the easy way out.

                I announced to the others, “I’m telling him. He has a right to know, and if no one else is going to do it, I will!”

                Mary, Patsy and the others mumbled, “Okay,” and looked at the floor.

                I walked down the corridor toward dad’s room with a lump in my throat. I didn’t want to say the words, either.  Did they think it would be easy for me? An old, very pertinent  memory came flooding back.

**

                Crying inconsolably, I didn’t know about this thing called "death". Dad just told me about how everybody dies one day. Even he would die, he said, and it was too much for me to take. My five year-old mind wasn’t ready for such news.

                “But it's okay, Sammy; I’ll go to a wonderful paradise called heaven,” he insisted.

                “But I don’t want you to die, daddy!”

                I continued to cry, and no amount of his explaining helped.

                Dad rubbed my head like he often did and said, “Alright, well, you know, I’ve decided I won’t die after all."

                My sobbing slowed and I blubbered, “You won’t?”

                “No. When I get really old and grey, and it’s time for me to die, I’ll just turn into an old grey mule. I’ll go to a pasture and eat grass all day. People will drive by and say ‘Just look at that old grey mule out there!”

                That didn’t seem so bad. No grave, no coffin--just grazing out there in the warm sun all day. I stopped crying. Everything wasn’t fine, but it was acceptable. My daddy would just become an old grey mule.

**

                I walked quietly into the hospital room. It was hard for me to speak without my voice breaking.

                “Dad.”

                “Oh, hi Sammy.”

                “Do you remember that story you told me when I was little, about you turning into an old grey mule one day?”

                “Yes.”

                “Uh, dad. It’s that time.”

                “Well, okay.”  He replied calmly. Rolling his eyes around, I could tell that it was a hard pill for him to swallow, but then he began to smile.

                Dad lived to see his 91^st birthday, but passed away shortly afterwards. There was a funeral, but I know that wasn’t him in the box. No, I saw him just yesterday, standing in a sunlit field, chewing tender green grass.

               

Author's Note

Written several years ago. Two of those who were there that day--Mary and Bob, have joined Dad in the great beyond.

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

This is a beautiful story. I just love how you broke the news to your Dad. It was a softer way of doing it and would have reminded him of the stories he told you when you were a child and confirm to him that you remembered them and have used that wisdom in later life. It takes great bravery having to break that news to a loved one. When my mum was seriously ill, the consultant told me that it was the right time to tell her that my brother had died. Oh my God, was that difficult, I thought the news would kill her, but it didn't. Sometimes we are faced with mountains and we just have to get climbing. Loved this story, brought tears to my eyes while drinking an afternoon cuppa. You write so well Sam. You have a huge talent. I hope you are keeping all your stories in a safe place.

All good wishes from across the waters. have a great day.

Chris

[Samuel Dickens]

Many thanks, Chris. I'm so sorry you had to give that awful news to your mother. It had to be done, though. I lost my younger brother 14 years ago, and I'm almost glad father had gone on and wasn't around to hear of it. Life can be a hard road to travel, this we know.
I can barely write anymore. I've about exhausted my supply of real-life events to turn into stories, and new ideas come hard. Despite all that, the urge/need is still there to try and say something worthwhile.

[Chris Shaw]

Dear Sam, never give up. A writer is always a writer to their dying day. Life sure has its hurdles. Sending you warm wishes across the miles.

[Angi]

You know that lump you had in your throat up there^? Well, I have one, too. What a lovely story, Sam. The last line was perfect. Angi~

[Samuel Dickens]

Thanks, Angi. Dad was a very unique person. He liked books and writing, and kept a photo of Charles Dickens on his wall.

[Renée]

oh I like that thought Sam ! Strange isn't it how the right words just fall into place when the time comes... A story with great meaning & lessons for us all !

[Samuel Dickens]

Thanks, Renee. Dad's clever words reemerged 50 years later to ease the pain of death a second time. Rather profound, I think.

[Renée]

yes it is .. and I am glad you shared them ( :

[Kermit Gildersleeve]

This is very comforting, and I love its truth.

[patricia]

That was a beautiful story sam. A nice thought too.
Hope this doesn't sound flippant. but if I was going to die I would want someone to tell me. Provided of course...he/she wasn't holding a gun in their hand when they said it.

[ice]

An oldie, but very goody, Sam..
The subject matter, even though emotional, has that certain slant of light (thanks Emily D.) to it,. The kind of light that humor sheds on grief.
Just as well when a person dies, to be turned into a mule than anything else.
Your old man found his heaven on earth...for heaven is earth, to me, and can't be seperated..
enjoyed reading this story

[Ron]

Sam this was so sweet. So perfectly short and meaningful. Relaxing too and the Grey Mule an inspiration. I shall tell this to my Grandson when he stays next time. I won't try and do an American accent. Newcastle Upon Tyne talk will have to do. Great stuff old son!

[Coyote Poetry]

A wonderful story of a different age. I like how you told it. Most of us would know already something bad a-coming. The wisdom of a missed generation is missed. My Grandfather life was simple and he loved his yard and a good beer. Your story was kind and beautiful. A outstanding story . Thank you.
Coyote

[Norma M Sutton]

I like this.

[Miss Coral]

Beautiful and sad, but so happy at the same time. :)
Tears are in my eyes. From about a minute read. There are other people in the room looking at me like I'm a total freak because you are an incredible writer. Excellent piece. Totally worth the odd glances. :)

[Millionth Muse]

What a beautiful story. I'm enchanted by the way that you show the adult becoming the child becoming that adult again, and the idea of the "old gray mule" is fantastic.