Sam Matteson, Physics
University of North Texas
Dead In Three Months
“I am so sorry to let you down, ‘Boss,’ but I will be dead in three months,” Ray, my newly-hired lab director pronounced in my office. “My cancer has returned with a vengeance and my organs are shutting down one by one.”
I glanced down to where his eyes had fallen. His feet were so swollen that they bulged over the tops of untie-able white sneakers.
“I know you were counting on me to turn around the student labs and I really feel bad about not being there to do that,” he continued.
Flabbergasted, I replied, “You’ve done everything humanly possible to improve things, and your efforts have made a huge difference. But does that really matter?”
“It does to me!” he shot back.
Any Spiritual Support?
After a pause I inquired: “Do you have any spiritual support?”
“Well, not really. . . Let me put it this way: my wife used to go to synagogue when she was a kid, but that’s about it.”
“Is there anything I can do?” I almost pleaded.
“No. I’m too far gone for that.”
I assured him again that his efforts were not in vain and that his work really mattered, and he left my office. A week later he was gone from the campus, and before the semester was over, his prophesy was fulfilled; he was gone from this earth.
I Let Ray Down Somehow
I have never overcome the sense that I let Ray down somehow, that I should have shared with him the most important information that I possessed: where I have found meaning and hope in life—and for after. At the moment I did not feel that I had earned the right or had built the bridges to discuss such personal and profound matters.
I cannot escape the memory of this encounter because I see reminders everywhere, even in the architectural details over my front door; the neo-classical lintel displays what an art history colleague called a “broken pediment,” that is, a form that looks like a rooftop with a gaping space cradling an urn.
She explained that this was a historical icon reminding us that death inevitably interrupts each of our lives at some point, often at an unexpected and unwelcome moment. Although the picture is centuries old, it is still relevant and can even be seen in the skyline of many postmodern cities. Among the skyscrapers sporting dormer windows and spires one will see a broken pediment here and there.
A Routine Physical
Recently my wife underwent a triple coronary artery bypass. A routine physical led to surgery in less than one week. When we initially received the news, the ancient Latin proverb “Memento Mori” echoed in my heart — “Remember: You die.”
I resolved again to earn the right to speak of the hope within us in a genuine and unpretentious way with those with whom I rub shoulders. We do not know how far reaches the ascending pediment of ours or another’s life, or how long we have to share the road.
© 2008 Samuel E. Matteson Used by permission of Faculty Commons