It Takes All Kinds

I was born a Christian.

No kidding.

I'm not saying I was born with some crazy birth-mark that branded me as the coming savior or anything, but I was born into a fervently Christian, conservative, right-wing household.

From the moment I was old enough to comprehend human language, the indoctrination began.

Before my ABC's and basic color recognition, I was taught to flawlessly recite John 3:16... the King James translation.

I was told that I was inherently sinful and needed God's grace and mercy in order to live a productive and fulfilling life. I compliantly believed this teaching and dutifully begged God to forgive me for sins I didn't even have the presence of mind to commit yet. (Turns out it was a good thing that I got a head start on that one. By the time I got around to actually committing those sins AND subsequently regretting them, I was already waaaaay behind on contrition)

I was told I needed to make God's service the focal point in my life. Then I was told that it wasn't enough to just believe in God and Jesus... I had to be “filled with the holy spirit”, which was kind of like making St. Peter's honor-roll. In order to demonstrate that I was eligible for this holy dean's list, I was supposed to participate in all kinds of zealous demonstrations such as “being slain the the spirit” (i.e. collapsing in divine ecstasy) and “speaking in tongues” (i.e. becoming so overcome with worshipful euphoria that regular, human language fails and one, instead, chants repetitive meaningless phrases which are considered sublime messages to God). I was supposed to close my eyes and raise my hands during praise music, I was supposed to gleefully share my faith with strangers. I was supposed to vote Republican. Of course, I did all these things... for a while.

I didn't really have much of a choice in the matter. Like so many children of Evangelical Christians, I was taught to believe in the bible with the same unflinching certainty that most people ascribe to the laws of physics. To suggest that any religion other than Christianity was correct, was the equivalent of telling me that gravity was more of a suggestion than a law.

But the fact is, I'm not really sure how much of it I truly believed. Though I went through the motions with gusto, I have to admit, I never felt so bowled over by my adoration for Christ that I tumbled down to the floor in a trance. I couldn't even work up the enthusiasm to fake it. And while I DID manage to put on a fairly good performance of “speaking-in-tongues”, I sadly, never really felt the way I imagined I should... or at least I didn't THINK I did. I quietly babbled non-nonsensical gibberish during church services, peeking through my mostly-closed eyes at the people around me whose heads were tilted back in rapture as they shouter their clamor to the ceiling. I remember wanting so badly to feel what they were feeling. I remember talking myself into louder, longer phrases, convincing myself that I was one of the earnest faithful. But the fact is, I was a big, fat phony... which was a terrible burden for a 12-year-old... one that has taken whole decades to shed.

I'm not saying this to be unkind or accusatory towards my family or to the Pentecostal, faith-healing, hand-waving, tongue-speaking church that handled the majority of my ethical and social training. I understand why they guided my beliefs and values so fervently. It's normal for people to raise their children to subscribe to a faith that, everyone agrees, will give them the best chance in this life... and the next life. And quite frankly, I'm still a Christian, just not a SUPER one. I tried like hell to uproot my faith and take on the beliefs of some other, hipper religion. But God is old and BIG and has a really firm grip. We're always in the process of working it out... God and I.

Still, I sometimes wonder if I hold on to Christianity simply because I was programmed to do so at such an early age. I'm not sure how much of Christianity would have really appealed to me if I had come across it as an intellectually established grown-up. And I can't be the only one who feels that way. I honestly wonder how many people remain faithful to the doctrine of their parents out of comfort and familiarity as opposed to actual belief. As a result, I tend to be very curious about other religions and I'm awed by people who either found or converted to their religions as adults. When I find someone who believes in Christianity, or something equally as fantastical as Christianity, and made a conscious, informed decision to do so- I'm deeply intrigued.

You could tell me that you believe motor oil is a sacrament and the spinning of an almighty hub-cap at the center of the planet keeps the universe functioning and I'd be like: “Really? Ok... that's fascinating, how did you come to believe this? Where did you get your doctrine? What is your faith's view of other faiths,”

… and perhaps most importantly...

“What does the almighty hub-cap have to say about death?”

Because pretty much every conversation that I have arrives at death eventually.

As a deputy medical examiner, I have to have at least a passing knowledge about different religions' beliefs about death. And if I don't have even a passing knowledge about a particular religion's views on death, I have to at least be contentious enough to no do or say anything overtly offensive or look too surprised when a dead person's family hits me with a totally obscure request regarding the handling of their loved one. There are some cultures who believe that a dead body must be in the ground less than 24 hours after the death. Others state that a woman is strictly forbidden from touching the dead body of a man. Several believe that a suicide is a scandal of epic proportions and must be covered up an any and all costs. Still another dictates that during the burial, a live chicken should be tossed, lengthwise, across the open grave.

We can't acquiesce to every request, obviously. Legally speaking, a decedent's family is encouraged to speak up regarding any specific desires or objections regarding the body of their loved one- but the fact is- the scene of a death is an open investigation until we say otherwise and no one has any rights to do anything to or with that body except... well... me.

I really should have expected the call... or rather... calls. On the morning in question, I had been on duty for 47 hours of my 48 hour shift and things had been strangely uneventful. I'd only been notified of a few natural deaths in hospitals so overall, I hadn't done much of anything during my whole shift. I was just about to finish my coffee and head out to hand off the proverbial baton when the phone started ringing. Two different deaths rolled in, each of which required a full scene investigation. I called up my relief and we agreed to split the work and each take a scene, meaning she would be starting early and I would be getting off late.

I called up the designated law-enforcement officer at the scene I was set to investigate and found myself on the phone with one of my favorite deputies, Lisa Garrison. I greeted her enthusiastically and asked for the low-down on the situation. Garrison, in turn, called me “hun” and gave me all the necessary information, but then paused and lowered her voice. I could hear shuffling in the background as she moved to a more private locale where she wouldn't be overheard by anyone.

“Look,” she whispered, “This guy had a prescription for all kinds of narcotics. The biggest issue is that he got a prescription for 90 Oxycodone a couple of days ago, and now there are only 6 left.”

“Yeah, that's a problem.” I agreed. An overdose, whether intentional or accidental, is often an unacceptable cause of death for families, one that results in weeks of diplomatically tricky conversations in which the family does their best to talk you in to listing virtually anything else as a reason for their loved one's demise.

“Also... “ Garrison stuttered, “Well... we've got this guy's son here- and he's saying he needs to say these particular prayers over the body and do some kind of ritual or something. He's getting REALLY worked up about it.”

“Well, tell him it's no problem,” I told her, my ears perking up at the possible complication of religious objections. “Just tell him he'll be more than welcome to say whatever prayers he wants, and we'll definitely take his rituals into consideration, but I can't make any promises on that one until I know, exactly, what he wants to do. What religion are we dealing with here anyway?”

“Jeez, man... I have no idea... Krishna? Hindu? He's really not giving us much to go on.”

“Okay, well just keep him out of the scene, I'll be there soon.”

I hung up with an ember of eager curiosity beginning to smolder in my brain. Both the local officers and I were used to dealing with Muslims, Jews, Catholics, Buddhists. For the most part we could quickly identify the more prevalent religions and act accordingly. But it didn't sound like this guy fit any of those paradigms, otherwise Garrison would have been able to figure him out. Despite the fact that this call was going to bleed into my weekend by at least three hours, I couldn't help but be a little excited about the idea of being introduced to yet another ideology. It was kind of like going on a blind date.

When I arrived at the scene, Garrison came out of the residence to greet me- a gesture which I took as something of a warning. Generally, the police stay in the house and let ME come to THEM. When officers deviate from this practice, it indicates that there's some kind of discombobulating what-the-fuck-ness going on inside and they worry that if I'm not properly alerted ahead of time, I'll walk in to the scene and either start laughing or screaming.

“So...” she began as I got out of my truck and started unloading equipment, “Ok... we've got the son in there, he's getting all bent out of shape about these prayers. I don't know what his deal is, but he's kind of... different. We also have the dead guy's wife inside. She's taking it all pretty well and she's really good about keeping the son in line. The problem is, the dead guy's room has no door...”

I listened as we were walking toward the house and just about the time that I was about to reach for the knob, the front door swung open from the inside- revealing none other than my absolute favorite chaplain ever, Chaplain Bob.

I love Chaplain Bob. Everyone does.

Seriously, this guy has the magical capacity to make anyone feel as though they're wrapped up in the blankety warmth of an eternal butterfly-kiss from baby Jesus. He's also a whiz at talking down volatile personalities and making even the meanest bastard sit down and really contemplate the choices they've made in life. The man is Obi-wan Kinobi in a sweatshirt and jeans. I'm convinced he could defuse nuclear missiles by simply giving them his grandfatherly “I'm-so-disaapointed-in-you” stare. In short, anything chaplain Bob wants, he gets. Whenever Chaplain Bob speaks, you listen. Whatever Chaplain Bob suggests, you do it.

“Hey kid!” He cheerfully growled at me as he squeezed my elbow and joined me on the front porch. “Listen, we've got this son in here, and he is really upset about wanting to say his prayers over his dad....” Chaplain Bob went on to describe how he had told the son that no one was not allowed to enter the room with his dad's dead body until the medical examiner said it was okay. Chaplain Bob then told me how he'd managed to broker for the son's compliance by agreeing to ask the me, the medical examiner, if it would be okay if Chaplain Bob performed the appropriate ritual while the son stood just outside the room and said the prayers he so desperately needed to invoke.

I blinked at him.

“Ummm... I guess that would be okay...” I stammered, wondering exactly what this “ritual” consisted of. Moreover, I was surprised that Chaplain Bob would be willing to participate in such an activity. I mean, I would never expect less than the utmost in compassion and tact from Chaplain Bob, but I also knew Chaplain Bob's secret identity. He's actually a Presbyterian pastor who leads a flock of elderly conservatives in the suburbs. And I've never known any Christian pastor who would be willing to participate in a “pagan-ritual” of any kind... for any reason.

But that's why Chaplain Bob is such a bad-ass. That's why what Chaplain Bob says, goes.

I entered the house, expecting... I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe a shrine in the southeast corner with chickens' feet hanging from the curtain-rods. Perhaps I expected a large, well-lit portrait of a prophet dressed in yellow robes and beads. I did NOT expect a tidy living-room with a worn couch, a big-screen TV and an ironing board. I did NOT expect a cluttered kitchen with the remnants of microwave dinners piled in the trash-bin. I did NOT expect a pleasantly plump, red-cheeked, white-haired lady seated at the kitchen table in a flannel bathrobe, sipping a mug of coffee. Nor did I expect a skinny, pale, thirty-something in coke-bottle glasses and a “Metallica” t-shirt standing listlessly in the corner and rubbing the reluctant, straggly hairs of his sparse goatee.

In short, I guess I was expecting Saliesha and Kumal, what I got was Loretta and Steve.

“Uh, hello.” I greeted them after I had taken a quick look at the body and gave the go-ahead for Chaplain Bob's plan. Loretta smiled up at me bravely and Steve sullenly grunted his acknowledgment. “Is, it okay if I sit?”

Loretta nodded and gestured at the chair across form hers at the kitchen table. Steve ignored me and instead addressed Chaplain Bob with a pointed stare. Chaplain Bob nodded at Steve and crossed the room to quietly discuss the details of the impending “ritual”.

Loretta and I began chatting about her newly deceased husband and all the medical problems he'd had over the past few years. She sighed as she described the doctor's office visits, the tests, the oxygen tanks in his room.

“Well,” I said to her, angling to gently broach the subject of her husband's missing pain medications. “Sometimes, when people are in a lot of pain, they often don't realize that-”

“AHHHH-BAL-e-AT! MAAAHS-shul-LAAAA DeeehMOOOL!”

I almost jumped out of my skin.

Behind me, in the doorway between the kitchen and the decedent's room, Steve was standing at the threshold, shouting his prayers at Chaplain Bob who was, in turn, slowly circling the dead body with a brass bell in one hand an a clump of smoldering twigs in the other. Chaplain Bob was making wide swinging gestures with the twigs while ringing the bell at regular intervals, indicated by Steve pointing at him between phrases. Chaplain Bob's expression was that of unshakable sincerity and concentration.

I couldn't even begin to tell you what expression I was manifesting, but Deputy Garrison, who had been posted up in the far corner of the dead guy's room, looked as though she was trying to swallow a swarm of angry bees.

“Um... uh... anyway, “ I stuttered as I turned back to Loretta, trying to regain my footing in our conversation and, again, tentatively tip-toe towards the possibility that her husband had, either intentionally or unintentionally, over-done the pain medications. I took a deep breath...

“Like I was saying, people sometimes forget that pain pills can take up to a half-hour to kick in... and when you're in a lot of pain, a half-hour can feel like-”

“GAAAHHHHHH-le-AAAAT! Muh-Muh-LAAAAAA! TooooooMEEEEENUT!”

I swallowed hard.

Loretta looked past me at the little display going on in the next room.

“Oh, that Steve,” she shook her head, smiling indulgently. “He's such a handful, but he found this faith group thing surfing the internet last month and it's really done wonders for him and his bipolar disorder...”

“Hmmm, yeah,” I agreed, following Chaplain Bob's shining example of religious tolerance. “It's really great for people to have that kind of anchor in their lives.”

Apparently the ritual was completed because the prayers ceased behind me and Chaplain Bob rejoined us in the kitchen. Steve once again took his place in the corner and seemed satisfied to stand there, brooding, as the interview continued.

“Charles never took too many of his pain medications,” Loretta stated definitively. “I helped him keep track of them because we knew it could be dangerous.”

“Okay,” I told her. “Well, tell you what, I'm going to go in there and just do an external exam on Charles. I'll take a look around and we'll decide what comes next.”

There wasn't really much to see. The fire department who had initially been called to the residence had clearly engaged in their favorite activity: Utterly trashing a private residence in the name of public service. The bed had been turned on it's side and flung against the far wall in order to make space on the floor where the decedent could be laid out for CPR. Used medical equipment and plastic packaging was strewn willy-nilly about the room and if I hadn't known better, I would have suspected that it had been snowing used latex-gloves just prior to my arrival because the damn things were everywhere . Of course, none of this garbage mattered to me. In fact, very little seemed out of place or unusual about the scene other than the fact that Steve had decided to monitor every moment of my investigation from his designated spot just outside of the doorway.

Rather than try to ignore him, I went ahead and addressed this issue.

“Is there something I can do for you?” I asked Steve as politely as I could... while still making it clear that I did not want an audience and had no interest in doing anything at all for him.

“No,” he mumbled, not moving from his spot.

“Now Steve,” Garrison gently scolded, as though she was correcting the naughty behavior of a pre-schooler. “You remember what I told you about having to step back when the medical examiner got here.”

Steve nodded his head glumly and muttered something under his breath. He wandered out of our field of vision, which was good enough for me. Really, there wasn't much to see and very little to discover anyway. The room had every indication of housing someone who had been very sick for a very long time, and the body looked as though it had been ravaged by this disease process. Everything added up, except for one, serious sticking pont: the decedent's bottle of 90 Oxycodone tablets was all but empty. And just as Garrison had pointed out, it had only been filled a few days earlier.

Garrison, Chaplain Bob and I passed around a few theories, speculating that maybe the wife wasn't actually altogether aware of how many tablets her husband was taking. We also wondered if maybe she was in denial about him wanting to commit suicide due to his chronic pain. The speculation went on but ceased abruptly when suddenly we heard Steve sneeze- a noise that came from entirely too nearby.

We all glanced at the doorway to see Steve scampering up the nearby stairs to the second floor of the house and retreating around a corner.

“Was he listening?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Probably” said Garrison

“Without a doubt.” said Chaplain Bob.

“Oh well.” said I.

We went back out to the kitchen and again addressed Loretta who was now making another pot of coffee for her recently arrived other son, Jim and his wife.

I introduced myself to the newcomers and went on to explain to all of them that because 84 Oxycodone tablets couldn't be accounted for, we would have to treat the death as a possible overdose and it would take a while for the issue to be settled. Loretta looked bewildered and stared at her hands for a few minutes before proclaiming:

“I just don't KNOW where those pills could have gone-”

At that moment, Steve reappeared.

He had shed the Metallica t-shirt and replaced it with an orange and pink patterned tunic which hung down past his knees. He teetered uncertainly on his feet as he meandered back into the kitchen. His glasses were still in place. However, beneath them, Steve's face had been painted almost completely (albeit, unevenly) white. From his hairline down to the corded collar of the ceremonial garb he wore, Steve now had the complexion of a dirty light-bulb. Moreover, a big, red triangle had been painted on his forehead with the apex between his eyebrows and either side extending upward in a v-shape. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought he was heading off to a pro-wrestling match where he was going to be paying tribute to his favorite character: The White-Hot-Vagina.

Steve did not make any comments or explanations regarding his new visage, nor did Loretta seem to register that anything was at all amiss. She glanced up at Steve, briefly, as he resumed his post in the corner, then she scrunched up her face in consternation and again busied her brain with puzzling out where the missing narcotics might be.

Behind me, I heard Jim gasp slightly and I turned to find that he was holding his breath and his face had gone virtually the color of Steve's triangle. As for Jim's wife... she didn't even bother to attempt hiding her disgust. Her lip curled at one corner and she shook her head slightly in disbelief.

“Are you SURE the pills aren't in his pill-dispenser thingie?” Loretta asked.

“Well,” I answered her, “I didn't see any other containers, do you know where it is?”

Loretta described the various locations where the weekly pill-dispenser could be hiding and Garrison stepped back into the bedroom for a final look. Meanwhile, Steve had begun an elaborate acrobatics routine in the middle of the kitchen floor, giving the impression that he was having a slow-motion sword-fight with an imaginary opponent. Loretta glanced up from her coffee.

“Steve, honey, what are you doing? Stretching?”

“Yeah,” Steve grunted, doing his best to sound casual as one of his flailing arms narrowly avoided giving Chaplain Bob an elbow to the eye, “I'm just stretching...”

You're just stoned out of your god-damnned gourd... I thought to myself as I noted the glassy droop of Steve's eyes and the uncoordinated, top-heavy wobble of his strange dance- all tell-tale signs of someone who has a chemically-induced meteor shower happening in every cell of their body. Doing the math, I figured Steve had been upstairs for about a half-hour while I was chatting with his mom and brother- just enough time for him to take a shit-ton of drugs and for those drugs to begin circulating through his nervous system

“Nothing in the pill container,” Garrison announced, dodging Steve's dramatic, left-legged-lunge-and-kick-and-jazz-hands as she rejoined us.

“Well,” Loretta sighed, “I have no idea, then...” She shrugged her shoulders and seemed to resign herself to the belief that the Oxycodone had inexplicably vanished. I resisted the urge to tell her that I was pretty sure I knew where the drugs were and if she wanted to, we could play a game of “hot and cold” in an effort to locate them. I would even give her a hint... at that very moment, I was pretty sure that most of the Oxycodone tablets were, technically, in the kitchen with us.

Fortunately, at that moment the body removal guy from the funeral home knocked on the front door, saving me from expounding any further on my suspicions regarding the missing Oxycodone or it's probable role in Steve's behavior. As much as I liked to think I was open minded about other methods of worship and other orders of faith, I was certain Steve's dizzying euphoria probably had more to do with his brain's saturated chemoreceptors than any comfort he was drawing from an online religion that encouraged it's congregants to paint red triangles on their heads. As far as I could tell, Loretta was in serious denial about the state of affairs in her house-hold. She likely wouldn't believe me if I alerted her to the likelihood that Steve had stolen his father's pain-killers, then gobbled them all down in a frantic effort to dispose of the evidence once he overheard me discussing their absence with a uniformed police officer. Even if she did believe me, what difference would it make? I would offend Loretta. God-of-red-triangles only knows what Steve would do or say when and if I confronted him with such an accusation. And what recourse did we have, even if I could prove it? What were we gonna do? Arrest him?

Ultimately, I let it go. I invited the removal crew in to gather up the earthly vessel that had been Charles, and I didn't press the issue any further. A month from now the toxicology report would come back and settle the issue. I had no doubt that we wouldn't find a molecule of Oxycodone in Charles' system and the pathologist would sign out his death as a natural event. At that point, it would be up to Loretta to either accept or ignore the implications of that information. And it would be up to Steve to offer her an explanation if it occurred to her to ask for one.

After doing a neck-breaking double-take at Steve, the funeral director loaded the body up on his stretcher, then allowed the family back into the bedroom to say their good-byes. Steve and Loretta went in for their last looks while Jim and his wife opted to stay in the kitchen.

Jim rubbed his eyes and stared at the floor. He sighed heavily.

“Steve.... man, oh man.” he grunted

Jim's wife smiled wanly at me, clearly having been audience to other such displays in the past.

“What are ya gonna do,” she shrugged “It takes all kinds.”

… and I suppose it does. Despite the fact that I was all but certain Steve was tripping balls on his dead father's pain meds, who was I to judge the content of his heart? So Steve found his religion online. So what? At least he could say it was his, which was more than I could say about the first 20 or so years of my own professed faith. Moreover, who's to say that the hand waving and tongue-speaking that I had engaged in as a child wouldn't appear equally as absurd as Steve's red triangle to the casual observer. Shoot, I'd seen full-length documentaries that show-cased the sheer weirdness of charasmatic Christian behaviors... behaviors that I had unquestioningly participated in for whole decades. I remember cringing with each new scene of one film that chronicled the faith-practices at a children's church-based summer camp that was virtually identical to the one that I had attended as a kid. The film-makers had made it look like those campers were all a bunch of little Steves-in-training... sans the face-paint. I suppose, theoretically, that's what creeped me out the most about Steve's practices... how much they reminded me of the things I used to do. But Steve had a one-up on me... at least he meant them.

Chaplain Bob, Garrison and I said our farewells as Charles was wheeled out to the waiting van. As we exited, Steve shadowed us to the front-door and watched us, hawk-like, through the screen as we retreated to our vehicles.

“Oh my GAWD!” I cried once we got out of ear-shot, trying to dispel the existential fog in which I had become tangled. “What the hell was THAT about?”

Garrison burst into a fit of giggles, and even Chaplain Bob, who is always the picture of compassion and respect, let out a guffaw.

“Nice work with the... um... bell.” I told him. “Now let's just hope he doesn't die of an overdose before we can all get off shift.”

“Why don't we go grab some coffee,” Chaplain Bob said, wrapping his big, bear-like arm around my shoulder. “After all, weren't you supposed to go home about four hours ago?”

“Yeah, I guess I was.”

Chaplain Bob gave me a squeeze.

“I love ya, kiddo... you're the best.”

and I suddenly found myself wishing I had Chaplain Bob's faith, the kind of faith that comforts without judgment... the kind of faith that puts its boots on the ground and walks bravely into chaos and finds a solution... the kind of faith that inspires someone to dance around a corpse with a bell and a handful of burning twigs if it's what it takes to make things... better.

To each his own.

Different strokes for different folks.

And it does, indeed, take all kinds.

It takes Steve. It takes Loretta.

It takes level-headed clear-thinkers who look awesome in a shoulder-holster... like Garrison.

It takes tender-hearted, benevolent humanitarians... like Chaplain Bob.

And hopefully,

eventually,

I might figure out how and where it even takes cynical, agnostic, shit-talkers

like me.