The Undecided

In that split second of no return, most of us decide. Whether the body succumbs to a short or long illness, or a sudden accidental fall, we take the leap. We choose. We have had enough. We move with intention, from life to death, leaving the body behind. We move toward whatever we have imagined our next life might offer. Most of us. Those who decide.

And then, there’s the rest of us. A good 25% of us, I’m told. We are the undecided. We sense that it’s time to take on life fully, or instead, by whatever means, move into a new time and place, leaving all that we know behind and give ourselves over to the ultimate renewal. But the undececided hover in some undefined state. We accept the status of half-dead, half alive and all the physical and emotional discomfort and agonizing pain that comes along with it.

Sitting on the dock and admiring the lake was always my favorite place to be. I found peace there. And geese. And trees. And jumping fish. Ripples. A light breeze. The scent of wet earth. And as I sat, day after day, I watched them. Dripping and confused, some slipping into the deep waters with a hint of unwillingness in their expressions. Others dredging themselves out of the waters, tripping onto the banks, lake slime and wet clothes clinging.

That’s how it works. That’s what I’ve learned. Those lakes. Pristine, inviting blue pools are really holding tanks. The lakes are where the undecided go. I never imagined myself joining them, as one of the undecided. Yet, it was on a cool, fall morning that I felt magnetized, walking as if hypnotized, deeper and deeper into the shockingly crisp bluish-greenish waters of the lake--unwillingly.

Once completely submerged, I was immediately attached to some sort of breathing apparatus. Those in charge here were not visible, at least not to me. They simply presented as an unseeable force, taking charge of what I apparently lacked the courage to take charge of myself. I was guided to a hospital-like bed, clearly reserved for me. A clinic of sorts, at the bottom of the lake, that I had once seen as beautiful and inviting, now presenting as a grotesque scene and I was part of it-- having earned my place in it.

I didn’t want to look around. But somehow, I had to. Like rubber necking that fatal auto accident as we drive by, not wanting to see what we are about to see, yet for some unknown humanistic reason, needing to feel, taste and smell around in someone else’s agony.

So of course, I looked. Needles in veins, bags of blood and liquids hanging like bats at night, pretending not to await their prey. Timers ticked on each of our life supply apparatus, bringing on the same anxious anticipation in my belly that knowing the morning alarm will eventually bellow brings on.

The old and the young. The seemingly healthy and the clearly infirm. I looked to my own timer now, as panic set it. 47 hours, six minutes, 26 seconds. My limited view of the others equipment led me to the conclusion that 48 hours must be our limit here. So now what?

I just lie there, confined to the bed, tethered like a prisoner in chains by tubes and pumps, blood and fluids. Was I being sustained or permanently emptied?

Too riled and confused to make any attempt to figure this out, or to discern whether I had any choice in the next steps, I gave myself 24 hours--just to observe. Perhaps through observation of what happened around me, to those for whom time was also ticking, I might be able to make some sense of this gory, dark place which, at the moment, made no sense at all.

There were dozens of occupied beds, behind me, in front of me and on both sides. I could only imagine how many of us were here, in this state, at this moment. This lake alone was miles in circumference. And thinking back to my schooling, there were, oh, I don’t know, 100 million lakes or so in the world. I calculated that there was occupancy space for a billion or more of us, the undecided, at any given time. And then, I wondered what good I was doing myself or anybody else, lying around making calculations, as if preparing for some sort of presentation where accuracy would count. None of that mattered here.

Suddenly, grabbing my attention, just a few beds down, in perfect view and earshot, an alarm sounded. It was shrill and piercing. Had someone’s time run out? He was a beautiful man with no apparent malady. Young, dressed in sport clothes, jeans, long- sleeved shirt and fleece vest. A thick head of dark, straight hair. He had begun to gasp through his mask. His arms flailed, ripping free the thin hoses, mask, and fluids. Blood spurting, covering him with reddish, pinkish streaks. His face and clothes looked like an artist had gone wild throwing streaks of paint to canvas. I supposed I should have been horrified but that part was really quite beautiful.

But soon, the beauty was gone. I could see clear crystal-colored tears running down his face, and into the murky waters of our holding tank. He fought first from the outside. Then, his twisted expression revealed his inner struggle. His tug-of-war with himself seemed to go on and on and on. All at once, he stopped. It all stopped. He lay limp, eyes wide. I watched as his body dissolved into a light greyish-blue mist, seeping toward the surface, and finally and completely, his mist claimed by the lake. Sick to my stomach, the urge to escape and fight like he had, felt like a pressure pushing on the walls inside of me.

I had to work hard to settle myself. Once I did, it became obvious that this is what happened when the undecided remained undecided. The decision was made for him as it would be made for all of us if we could not muster the resolve.

A young woman lay on the bed next to the man who was no longer there. She had been watching him, too. I saw terror and confusion in her eyes, but in an instant, her terror turned to resolve. She sat up in bed, now her timer reading 8 hours and some. She sat completely upright, her long blonde hair wafting in the lake’s water. A simple sundress clung to her curves. There was a calm and a beauty about her and a life force spilled over and seemed to create a momentary peace for all of us who were close by. She reached down, slowly sliding one needle from her arm, the one connected to the blood-like substance.

With ease and with the movements of a well-trained dancer, slowly and systematically, she released herself from each connection, one by one. Her body began to rise to the surface. Completely free of her encumbrances now, I saw a vague, peaceful smile grace her lips. In that moment, I was reminded of the dripping wet souls I had watched from my place by the lake, scrambling on the brown, slippery, muddy banks of the lake but making it out, headed back to complete their human experience.

So why couldn’t I just do that? It looked easy enough. To just decide. To just go home. To just disconnect. Yet every time I considered following the beautiful young woman’s lead, something held me. My hands would shake, my would body tremble, and I could feel a tearing apart inside me that made me feel the truth of my current existence--half dead, half alive. It hurt to be in that place--the place of the undecided.

I lay back, exhausted. I slept, but the dream state I fell into was like a drug induced fog. In the mist of sleep, I could feel every bit of physical pain and mental anguish pounding at me, like a cruel beating, just beneath the surface. I woke with a start, terrified that I might have slept though my time limit. I craned my neck to see. 30 hours, 5 minutes, 18 seconds.

I observed the woman lying on the bed next to me. She, too, was peacefully and systematically removing herself from all her constraints, one at a time. When finished, she lay back down, ran her fingers through her graying hair, smoothed her long, wet, blue gown neatly against her body, as if preparing herself. She closed her eyes, then quietly and intentionally, drew her soul toward the water’s surface, leaving her body behind.

I was, in every moment, afraid to allow sleep again, fearing the timer. I had observed the agony of others as time ran out. I had stood in awe as others made their choices, one to stay and one to go, both equally as peaceful. There was one conclusion I could come to, at least right then. This unfolding horror show only remained a horror show when struggle prevailed--when no decision was made, before it was too late.

So then, in that moment, I made one choice. I decided to decide. I would not remain one of the undecided for much longer. 25 hours, 10 minutes, 6 seconds.

Sitting on the dock and admiring the lake was always my favorite place to be. I found peace there. And geese. And trees. And jumping fish. Ripples. Light breeze. The wet scent of earth. As I sit here now, I don’t remember deciding. But I know I did. Like a dream that you wake from, the memory of it just hanging there in the back of your mind, but remains just out of your reach. And really, what does it matter whether we sit by the lake in human form or as a mist of pure consciousness? What matters, and the only thing that matters, is mustering the courage to decide.