Too Soon to Say Goodbye

by Art Buchwald

  My dear friend Russell Baker sent me the most poignant letter of all after I wrote to him that I was not going to live.

  He wrote:

  Dear Art,

  You have always been an impossible act to follow. Now you are writing letters that are impossible to answer. I think a lot about my own mortality, but it’s just the usual dull stuff that nobody wants to hear about. You on the other hand turn it into a meditation worthy of Cicero on confronting life’s heaviest burdens.

  Anyhow, you’ve managed to get people speaking well of you. I phoned David Halberstam and Bud Trillin yesterday, and both told me what an extraordinarily “generous” person you are. I figure this means they heard you once did a free lecture for the Starving Widows and Orphans of Sri Lanka. Halberstam also used the words “gentle” and “warmth,” which are the kind of words Karl Rove uses about people he plans to destroy.

  Art, do you remember the time we went to Berkeley to do a program at UCal with Groucho Marx? Groucho didn’t show. Had flu or bellyache or something. A million rebellious college kids had turned out, most of them to see Groucho Marx, I assumed. I figured we’d be pelted to death with spiral notebooks when we took the stage—especially me, since I had no material worth doing, figuring that Groucho would carry the show.

  Fortunately, you had prepared something, and it was terrific. Brought the house down, in fact. I later figured you saved my life that night. I also understood why Groucho stayed home that night. He already knew you were an impossible act to follow.

  Greeting Cards

  Two main ways that Americans communicate with each other are by cell phone and greeting card. Over the past few weeks in the hospice I’ve been receiving more greeting cards than cell phone calls. It gives me a chance to study one of the largest industries in America. I am also learning about the habits of greeting card consumers.

  I have received every kind of card, including “Happy Birthday.” Still, the ones that I get the biggest kick out of, since I’m in a hospice, are the “Get Well” cards. Even now, some people just haven’t figured out what I’m doing here.

  According to the Greeting Card Association, the average person receives more than twenty cards per year. The average price of a card is two to four dollars. But if you want the card to talk, it’s going to cost you ten bucks.

  People send greeting cards because they save the time of writing a letter. Hallmark will do it for you. Some people feel obligated to send you a funny card—no matter how much trouble you’re in. They not only send you the card, but then they call you up to find out if you got it. And if you don’t react the way they expect you to, they are hurt.

  Some time ago I was in Kansas City and I visited the Hallmark campus. There were several buildings, and I was given a tour. I asked, “Where are the funny cards written?” The person showing me around said, “We have a special building for them, and no one else can enter it.” I walked by, hoping to hear laughter, but there was dead silence. My guide said, “They have no sense of humor.”

  For me, the typical card I receive has no printed message—just a pretty picture on the front and blank inside where the sender can write his own note. This takes a lot of creativity, particularly when sending a card to someone in a hospice.

  The most difficult cards are those signed with only a first name, like Joan, Mary, or Susan. The senders assume they are the only Joan, Mary, or Susan you know. To make sure you’re perplexed, they don’t write a return address on the envelope.

  Of course postage plays a big role in greeting cards. The price of a stamp keeps going up all the time. It’s now thirty-nine cents, but it’s still cheaper than buying a gallon of gas.

  Greeting card companies are constantly thinking up new holidays or occasions to motivate people to buy cards. You have Administrative Professionals Day (formerly Secretaries Day), Grandmothers Day, Sisters-in-law Day. There are even cards that you can send when you want to break up with your lover.

  Eighty percent of card buyers are women. But here’s a fact: Women are more likely to buy several cards at once than men (though men generally spend more on a single card than women). The most popular cards are birthday cards, which represent 60 percent of all cards purchased, but there is still a big market for sympathy cards.

  I don’t expect to receive any valentines, but it would be nice if I were still around to get Christmas cards.

  People ask me what I’m doing with all the cards that have been sent to me. I put them in a shoebox and they become part of my estate.

  12

  Poster Boy

  If you stay in a hospice long enough, as I have, you can become a poster boy. I have been a poster boy for the Marine Corps, adoption, stroke, depression, kidneys, and now hospice.

  This takes up a lot of my time, particularly if people aren’t sure you are going to be around too long.

  This is how it works: You get a call and you’re asked by a friend to be the honored guest at a hospice fundraising dinner. You agree to the invitation because your friend is on the board of directors. Or you have a friend who has a friend who is on the board of directors.

  You are told all you have to do is show up for the event.

  What they don’t tell you is that it’s not that easy. You are expected to buy tables for the event and to get friends to buy tables. If the tables aren’t sold, you’re not considered much of a poster boy.

  Okay. The first thing that goes out is the “save the date” notice, and they want the names and addresses of all your best friends. The nearer you get to the event, the more pressure is put on you to get people to buy tables.

  The chairman of the dinner calls you up and says, “The tables aren’t moving. We thought you would be a draw, but we were wrong. Would you buy ten tables so that we don’t look silly? This is how we suggest you do it. We’ll have a cocktail party at the board chairman’s house. We will serve hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Nobody can leave the house unless they sign up for a table or promise to get someone else to come.”

  The flower committee chairwoman submits her budget. Each table must have two dozen roses. She’s very proud she’s getting ten percent off from her cousin who is in the business.

  You get a call from the advertising chairman. He says, “No one is buying ads for the program. Would you take twelve pages and we’ll print your picture as well as the members of your family?”

  You have no choice except to buy the pages.

  There’s a special section of tables next to the guest of honor for the “Friends of Hospice.”

  The dinner chairman tells you, “In order to make the dinner a sure success, we can get Tony Bennett at $250,000 for the night.”

  Then there is the final pre-dinner meeting. The caterer, the ballroom manager, and the pastry chef all hand in their budgets. It will cost $250,000 for the dinner, and with any luck the hospice will break even.

  But it’s a chance to be the poster boy for hospice. And to make it more festive, you’ll get a Life Achievement Award.

  The trouble is, as soon as you’re finished being a poster boy for hospice, someone wants to make you Man of the Year for Frozen Shoulder Syndrome. And if that works out they offer you the Arthritis Foundation Freedom Award.

  I don’t know how many awards Mark Twain received in his life, but I think I’m getting close to his record.

  If it weren’t for the honor I wouldn’t want to be the poster boy for hospice.

  13

  Communication

  I found out that in a hospice, communication is very important. This thought came to me when a friend of mine, Bobbie Smith, said that everyone has a private line to God, and if nobody answers at the other end, you have another day to live.

  Communication is very helpful when you are dying. If you have communication, both parties feel good. But if the patient has lost his ability to communicate, it’s a very frustrating thing. It’s terrible for family and friends if the patient is in a coma. Then you are told to talk to them as if they are heari
ng you.

  My family was told if I went into a coma to pretend that I was listening to them.

  I remember that when Joe Kennedy, Sr., had a severely disabling stroke, all the people in the family talked to him even though he couldn’t respond. Once when I went in to see him in Hyannis Port, Bobby Kennedy told me to be sure to talk to him as if he heard everything I said. I believed I had gotten through to him when I talked to him about politics and world affairs.

  In the hospice there are some patients with whom I communicate. They talk about my business and I talk about theirs.

  Even when I thought it was the very end, I could make people laugh, tell jokes and stories. Friends and acquaintances that haven’t seen me here in the hospice want information from those who have.

  “Did you see him?”

  “How was he?”

  “Did he make any sense?”

  “How much more time does he have?”

  “I’d love to go see him, but I’m afraid I’d cry.”

  “Who do I call to get permission to see him?”

  “He’ll have to see me if I bring him something.”

  “I hear he prefers food to flowers.”

  “I haven’t seen him in a long time. Do you think he’ll think it’s strange that I want to see him now?”

  “I intended to see him last week, but I was very busy doing my taxes.”

  Instead of food or flowers, some people bring me terrible jokes. One of my doctors is an excellent physician, but he’s no stand-up comic. Whenever he tells me a joke I always reply, “Keep your day job.”

  I love gossip, and if somebody brings me gossip they are very welcome. The benefit of it is that when one person gives me gossip I’m able to pass it on to someone else. So everybody prospers.

  If people have children, they want to tell me all about them. Every parent I know has a story. And almost every parent has to tell it to someone. They are either bragging about their child’s accomplishments or bemoaning some trouble the kid got into.

  We also discuss news we read in the paper that day, news on television, and books we either love or hate. I believe the one that we have discussed the most is The Da Vinci Code. People all had opinions on it and they were anxious to come here and tell me their views.

  One of the ways I make people happy is to tell them how much I enjoyed the dish they brought me. I ask for the recipe and then I give it to another person so they can also make it for me. I don’t know whether I’m violating people’s cooking rights or not.

  Someone asked me once whether I talk differently to the women than to the men who come to visit. Possibly, but I’ve always spoken differently to women. This was true long before I was in a hospice.

  I flirt more with women than with men—and always have. I like to think one of my strengths is flirting. Even in the hospice, women love to be flirted with.

  When it comes to men, the hospice is like a locker room. We tell jokes.

  I’ve listened to the play-by-play of more golf games than ever before in my life. The reason for this is I am a captive audience. I know every golf score of George Stevens, and Dave Wolper, my buddy, sends me his scores by e-mail. I now know what happened to Jack Valenti on the fifteenth hole of Burning Tree. They all mean well.

  Since people in a hospice are typically senior citizens, most of the male visitors are golfers, and when you talk to them, one of the questions they ask you is, “Do you think there are any good golf courses in heaven—where women can play as well?”

  I don’t know the answer to this question because I’m not a golfer. In fact, hearing about somebody’s game of golf is more painful than going to the dentist.

  Of course there are times when you get wiped out and you want your visitors to go away. I start yawning, and if I’m lucky they say, “I think I’d better go.”

  Others say, “I’ll just stay for a few minutes,” and they wind up staying for an hour.

  The toughest visitors are the ones who fly in from California, Arizona, and Florida to see you “before you go.” Since they went to all the trouble to come this far (some of them even used frequent flyer miles), you have to pay them a lot of attention.

  Then there are those who don’t seem to realize they are in a hospice. My friend Ralph Davidson came for what I thought was a pleasant visit. After about eight minutes he started pitching me for a donation to his favorite candidate’s campaign for the D.C. mayoral election.

  When I told him I can’t donate to political campaigns, he complained, “It’s not your kidneys that don’t work—it’s your heart.”

  When he wouldn’t stop, I told him, “This is worse than the physical therapy for my artificial leg.”

  Some visitors are only interested in my medical condition.

  “How are the kidneys?”

  “Are they better or worse than before?”

  “What is the doctor’s prognosis?”

  “If you had it to do over again, would you take dialysis?”

  My reply to that is, “If I took dialysis you wouldn’t be here visiting me today. And by the way, I wouldn’t be here either.”

  14

  Death in the Afternoon

  When I’m not receiving guests I have time to watch movies from Blockbuster and think about the end.

  We live and die by the movies. We may not know it, but we all imitate the roles of the actors and actresses on the screen.

  I first started playing my death scenes when I went to the Saturday afternoon movies as a kid. I’d leave the theater clutching my stomach, like the gangster of the week.

  One scene that I act out in my mind is Marlon Brando’s final scene in The Godfather. Brando is playing with his grandson in the garden, and suddenly he drops dead. Even though he wasn’t a good guy in the film, he died with dignity. People cry during that scene. I like to pretend I am Don Vito Corleone, going out like a great Sicilian.

  There are other death scenes from films that I cherish, such as in The Petrified Forest when Humphrey Bogart shoots Leslie Howard and then in turn is shot to death himself by police.

  Then there’s Dead End, when Baby Face Martin (Bogart again) is shot to death by police when he opens fire on them, after first being shot by Joel McCrea and falling from a fire escape.

  I know I go back in time for my death scenes. In The Roaring Twenties, Bogart is pumped with lead three times by James Cagney. You are probably surprised that some of my fantasies have to do with violence, but I love to make believe that someone is going to get me, like in High Sierra, when I pretend I’m Humphrey Bogart and I’m picked off by a police sharpshooter.

  This one has always been a favorite of mine: I pretend I’m Charles Bronson in The Magnificent Seven. During the final battle with the bandits I’m shot in the stomach as I lead some children to safety. I bravely die while talking to the children. A hero.

  When I run out of those scenes I always go back to George Raft in Scarface. Raft is shot to death by Paul Muni when Muni finds Raft with Ann Dvorak.

  This sounds bloody, but every once in a while I think of myself as George Raft in another of his films, Some Like It Hot, being shotgunned when a hit man jumps out of a cake during a banquet. If that doesn’t work for me I pretend I’m Raft when he accidentally shoots himself with a backward-firing gun in Casino Royale.

  I know some people don’t think of me as the Alec Guinness type in The Bridge on the River Kwai, when he gets killed blowing up the bridge. This takes a lot of fantasizing because I have to wait until the bridge is built before I can blow it up.

  Another favorite is the death scene in Bonnie and Clyde. I play Clyde to Faye Dunaway’s Bonnie. I die with class.

  I still think of Ronald Reagan. My favorite Reagan role is in the classic film Knute Rockne, All American. He is on his deathbed, and he says to Pat O’Brien, who plays Rockne, “Tell them to go out there with all they’ve got and win just one for the Gipper”—except I change it to “win just one for Buchwald.”

  I have always depende
d on movies to write my personal script.

  I can’t get the scene out of my head when I play Frank Sinatra in From Here to Eternity and I’m dying in Monty Clift’s arms after a beating in the stockade. What makes it so endearing is that Monty Clift plays “Taps.”

  I like the idea of someone playing “Taps” in my final scene.

  15

  Awards for Staying Alive

  There have been a lot of highlights here in the hospice. One of the biggest was when the French decided to award me the Order of Arts and Letters, the Legion of Honor for writers. I think it had something to do with my birthday party and that they finally wanted to acknowledge that I spent fourteen years in France.

  A ceremony was held at the hospice and fifty of my friends showed up. The ambassador, Jean-David Levitte, had to get the president of France to sign off on it. The ambassador told me he was worried I wouldn’t get the medal before I died, so he wrote an urgent letter to the president’s office telling him the state I was in. This sped up the red tape. After the official presentation by the ambassador, Joel and Tamara, my son and daughter-in-law, made me wear the medal for several days.

  When I first left for France as a young journalist, I was told to be careful because many of the French did not speak English and were only after the few American dollars I had in my sock. But I soon discovered they were no different from the merchants back home who wanted my money, too.

  As the great Francophile writer James Jones once said, “The French are the French are the French.” It kept me from getting angry all the time. Plus, my French was so bad I was never sure what they were saying. I did get mad, though, at a retired French general who was the landlord of my apartment on the rue Monceau back in 1954. He was a four-star anti-Semite. Every time he saw me he would stop and say something nasty about the “Juifs.”

  Not wanting to lose the apartment, I would say, “Very interesting.” Under my breath I said, “Fuck you.” I hated that man and still do, not because of what he was, but because I didn’t have enough nerve to tell him, “Fuck you, mon général.”