I was talking on BBC Radio South on Sunday, 6 February 2011 – it was a phone-in. A lady who said she was sixty rang to say she had died fifteen years earlier and had been resuscitated. She told listeners she had experienced an exquisite sense of beauty and peace and then ‘suddenly there was pain. I could never tell you how dreadful it was, like a great wooden stake being rammed through my chest.’ That must have been the CPR – entirely justified on an otherwise healthy woman of forty-five, but not justified on a failing old body for whom there is no chance of return to a meaningful life.
Five per cent of the population die in an ambulance, but this statistic can be misleading. Ambulance paramedics are required to get a patient to hospital alive, so they use every means available to keep the heart going for the duration of the journey. Something must be done to protect the elderly who, like me, want to be able to die quietly without first being subjected to well meant, but intrusive attempts to resurrect us.
A Commission of Enquiry is needed. I have approached all members of parliament and many members of the House of Lords. I have approached DEMOS, the government think tank that acts as a secretariat for commissions concerning social and medical issues. In this age of electronic tags and instant access to personal data surely it should be possible to prevent inappropriate resuscitation attempts.
1980
TIME TO GO
The Appalachian Mountains in 1896, the year Harry Randolph Truman was born, was a wild, rough place and it was hard to scratch a living out of the rocky soil. In a land of rolling valleys of oak and sycamore, beech and birch, it was natural for generations of Trumans to be woodsmen or loggers, and in later years Harry used the skills learned as a boy to construct the lodge, log cabins, boats and boathouse for the visitors’ centre he built on the edge of Spirit Lake beneath the brooding presence of Mount St Helens, in Washington State, USA.
Truman possessed a daredevil streak and in 1917, lured into the war in Europe by dreams of adventure, he enlisted in the 100-Aero Squadron of the American Expeditionary Force. He learned to drive and to fly, and trained as an aero-mechanic and electrician – all skills that he would use in later life. Under a veil of secrecy the squadron was sent to Halifax, Nova Scotia, one of the Canadian ports shipping troops to France during the First World War. The boat on which he sailed was hit by a torpedo, and although many died, Truman was one of the survivors. His dreams of adventure were replaced by the cruel reality of war.
In France, he worked first as a mechanic and then as a combat pilot. In later years, at St Helens Lodge, he would tell of flying the French biplanes in an open cockpit, ‘a leather cap on my head, a silk scarf round my neck flapping in the wind’. Like many such tales, they improved with each telling.
But war changed Truman, as it did many young men. A friend said, ‘He became a kind of loner, I think. He never discussed the war, he wanted to forget it.’
Truman was demobilised in 1919 and he returned to a very different America. He worked as a mechanic for a Ford dealer, but although always polite and courteous, he kept to himself, and seldom confided in or even mixed with his fellow workers. He seldom revealed his deepest feelings to anyone. It was not until later that they learned that he had married a girl called Helen Hughes during this time and that they had had a daughter.
In 1921, Prohibition, forbidding the sale or consumption of alcohol in the United States, became law. Truman was deeply offended. He had fought for his country, and now that same country was telling him he couldn’t have a drink! He saw it as a crisis that must be opposed. Besides, the humdrum routine of being a car mechanic, for low pay, was proving irksome; bootlegging offered better prospects. In many ways it was the perfect match of man and occupation. He was adventurous, ambitious, and full of initiative. Taking risks, bending the law, was just a well-paid game for him. He became a rum and whisky runner, picking up supplies smuggled illegally into the port of San Francisco, and running it into Washington State. What his wife had to say about this is not recorded! But bootlegging started by small entrepreneurs like Truman soon came to be controlled by organised and ruthless gangsters. With inevitable disputes over territory and money, Truman escaped just a few steps ahead of a gang who were after him. ‘I got in trouble with some big guys. Things got hotter than Hell,’ he said later.
He had to leave rum running and tried several low-profile jobs in which he hoped not to be noticed, but the boys were after him and he could not hide. Eventually, he decided that the wilderness was the only place where they would not find him – and that is how he came to Spirit Lake, beneath Mount St Helens, where he remained for fifty-four years until the mountain blew up.
Spirit Lake was over three thousand feet above sea level, and the land belonged to the Northern Pacific Railroad Company. Truman rented fifty acres from them and the rights to boating and fishing. He built his first cabin on the shoreline in 1926, and life was hard, but he had always responded well to a challenge. Few people could live in such isolation, and, inevitably, his marriage suffered. There were no schools for thirty miles, so his daughter had to live with her grandparents. His wife could not stand the separation so she joined her daughter. Divorce followed.
But Truman stayed. Like everyone, he had to earn a living, and he guessed that the beauty of the area would be a draw to visitors. Slowly, he built a holiday centre – cabins for visitors, a boathouse and jetty – offering fishing, riding, and trekking. The dramatic landscape and the solitude drew people from when the snows melted in spring until the cold of autumn. Winters were snowbound, and then he was alone.
Truman was a tall, handsome man and his carefree spirit, combined with rugged independence, made him extremely attractive to women. He tried marriage again, but the loneliness of the winters, being snowed up for months on end with one man – however attractive – proved too much for the poor woman, and she, too, left him.
Somehow, through the 1920s and ’30s, Truman managed to continue his bootlegging, and he always kept a supply of illegal spirits for his tough, outdoor friends. He also constructed a still, and made good money from selling moonshine (a home brew, distilled into a spirit of rotgut potential). Truman was hardworking, hard-drinking and hard-swearing. ‘That ol’ sinner,’ said a friend after his death, ‘he was just a goddam, hell-bound ol’ sinner. Up there in Heaven he’ll smuggle whisky in one door and ice and shakers in the other, an’ carry on like he always did. Jeez, I really miss that ol’ son-of-a-bitch – sure miss him.’
In 1946 Truman married Eddie. She was the woman for him, and they loved each other deeply. Friends said that he worshipped her. Not only did she seem to enjoy the long, cold winters, she could handle his somewhat tempestuous nature, his hard drinking, and his autocratic ways.
When she died, thirty years later, he was devastated. The loss nearly destroyed him. He ceased caring for himself, or his lodge, or the visitors’ centre. A friend said, ‘If he hadn’t been so tough, it would have killed him right away. But the old bugger was tougher than a boiled owl.’
Truman would walk to his boathouse as dusk set in, the warm evening wind whispering in his face. Trees, hundreds of years old, surrounded the lodge. ‘Bear and cougar, deer and elk grazed in the underbrush, the dense carpet of fir needles silencing any footfall … He could see the wild orchids and shooting-star wildflowers growing between the low bush huckleberries, the beautiful maidenhair ferns and delicate violets, yellow, white and blue. Monkey flowers and kingcups bloomed on the banks of the lake.’[6] Quite often a fisherman would be whipping his line for a cast upstream from the dam. An otter would surface, see the fisherman and dive, splashing the water with its thick tail. As the sun dropped behind the hills, Spirit Lake, the place Truman knew so well, assumed an air of mystery. The light would change, and the snow-capped Mount St Helens would show a different mood before it was swallowed up by purple darkness. The distant snowfields would become incandescent, dimly reflecting a pinkish glow. Then the moon would rise, and the mountain, holding her secrets close, would look as if she belonged to another world.
6
From Shirley Rosen,‘