The Ultimate Question

I don't think I will ever be able to forget that horrific day. It is deeply seared into my memory, and I still can't get rid of the nightmares. On a spectacular spring morning I stepped out of my house to go for a walk. Suddenly I saw my next-door neighbor racing toward me shouting for help. Smoke was pouring out of her windows as she screamed, "Please save my little girl, she's trapped inside!” There were flames everywhere and the heat sucked the breath out of me. I staggered through to the back bedroom and scooped up the tiny child and clutched her close to my chest. The last thing I remember was the house collapsing around us. Many days later, I awoke with intense pain in every part of my body. The nurse gave me a shot to ease the agony. She said that I was lucky to be alive. I had been so severely burned that the doctors had to put me into a medically induced coma to stop me from thrashing around while they sliced away my charred and lifeless skin. In and out of consciousness for days on end, I could think of nothing else than the excruciating pain that even the strongest medicine couldn't completely dull. "You're lucky to be alive," the nurse had said. Really? I desperately wished that someone would put me out of my misery, but I was terrified of dying. You see, I had been raised to believe that when you die you either go to heaven or to hell. Well, if hell was going to be worse than what I had just been through I definitely didn't want to go there! But I was the black sheep in my family, the bad seed, the disgrace to our name. I can just hear someone saying, "Him? Get into heaven? Never in a million years!" So, I was stuck. Life was unbearable and hell seemed inevitable. Then one day I had a visitor, the mother of that beautiful little girl that I had held in my arms in the inferno. She had come to see how I was and to thank me for trying my best to save her child. I asked whether her little one was okay, and instead of answering she looked down and her tear-stained face made me shudder. I was too shocked for words. We sat in silence sharing a sorrow too deep to describe. Our tears eloquently revealed an awareness that we were forever locked together in shared sadness, shared loss, shared unspeakable grief. Trying to bring her comfort, I mumbled something about her little girl being safe in heaven with God. I was astonished at her reply. "I don't believe that she is in heaven," she said quietly. My mind was racing as she sat there in silence. Surely, she can't believe that her child is in hell, I thought to myself. "I know that some people find comfort in believing that when a child dies it is because God loves that child so much that He wants her to be with Him in heaven. But it makes no sense to me that God would allow my darling child to suffer unimaginably in that fire just so He could have her for Himself." She sat there for long moments slowly shaking her head. "No!" she said firmly, "Absolutely not! I don't believe that my daughter is in heaven, and I know for sure she's not in hell. I believe with all my heart that there is only one place in the universe that she is. It is in her little grave with the headstone above her that reads, 'Sleep well my Darling 'till the Life Giver wakes you up.'" With that she rose, looked at me kindly for a long moment, squeezed my hand, and left me wondering at her strange certainty that her little one was not in heaven. Her visit gave me something to think about besides my pain. So, there actually was another possibility that I had not considered before. That you don't have to go to heaven or hell when you die. That you're really dead when you die, and that's it. Not sure how I could test that idea, but it did bring into sharper focus the reality that I no longer needed to allow my terror of hell to prevent me from deciding to cut my life short. I felt strangely relieved that I was not doomed to unending, unbearable pain. That I could end it. The day came when the doctor came to check on me, I was quite alert. I told him that I couldn't stand the pain any longer and that I wanted him to let me die. He explained to me that pain management was the top priority, medically speaking, and when my body responded favorably to treatment I would recover and be able to get on with my life. I rang for the nurse after he left. I liked her a lot because she was gentle and caring and happy to do all she could for me. I asked her why the doctor wasn't interested in my request to let me die. She told me that most doctors believe that it is their solemn responsibility to keep people alive. Some even have a keen sense of failure if a patient dies. "We all want to do everything possible to get you well again," she said. Annoyed by what she said, I told her, "Okay, go and get a mirror so that I can see what I look like." "That's against doctor's orders" she replied. "Aha" I said, "You've just let on that I look like a freak. So, what kind of a life would I have if mothers had to shield their children's eyes from seeing me. If people would stare with horror on their faces at my appearance? Who would hire a hideous monster like me?"