The REALIST Issue Number 90 – May-June, 1971 pages 46-47
Krassner: And yet, since you’re against abortion, doesn’t that put, you in the position of saying that a girl or a woman must bear an unwanted child as punishment for ignorance or carelessness?
Kesey: In as I feel abortions to be probably the worst worm in the revolutionary philosophy, a worm bound in time to suck the righteousness and the life from the work we are engaged in. I want to take this slowly and carefully. This is the story of Freddy Schrimpler:
As part of his training, a psychiatric aide must spend at least two weeks working the geriatric wards. or ..shit pits.. as they were called by the other aides. These wards are concrete barns built, not for attempted cures or even for attempted treatments of the herds of terminal humanity that would otherwise be roaming the streets, pissing and drooling and disgusting the healthy citizenry, but for nothing more than shelter and sustenance, waiting rooms where old guys spend ten, twenty, sometimes thirty years waiting for their particular opening in the earth. At eight in the morning they are herded and wheeled into showers, then to Day Rooms where they are fed a toothless goo, then are plunked into sofas ripe with decades of daily malfunctions of worn out sphincters, then fed again, and washed again, and their temperatures taken if they’re still warm enough to register, and their impacted bowels dug free in the case of sphincters worn-out in the other direction, and their hair and the cheesy old fingernails clipped (the clippings swept into a little pink and grey piles), and fed again and washed again, and then usually left alone through the long afternoons.
Some of these derelicts still have a lot going and enjoy trapping flies and other such morsels in the snare of their baited hands, and some engage in contented and garrulous conversations with practically anything, and some watch TV, but most of them lie motionless on the plastic covered sofas or in gurney beds, little clots of barely-breathing bones and skin under the government sheets. Even the Doctors call them vegetables.
In caring for these men something becomes immediately obvious to all the young aides undergoing their first real brush with responsibility. The thought is very explicit. After the first meal squeezed into a slack mouth, or after the first diaper change or catheter taping, every one of the trainees have thought this thought, and some have spoken it:
“Without our help these guys would die!”
And, after the hundredth feeding and diapering and changing, the next thought, though never spoken, is:
“Why don’t we just let them die?
An awful question to find in your head, because even young aides know that age can happen to anyone. “This could I some day be?” But even fear of one’s own future can’t stop the asking: “Why don’t we just let them die?” What’s wrong with letting nature take its own corpse? Why do humans feel they have the right to forestall the inevitable fate of others? Freddy Schrimpler helped me find my answer:
Freddy was 70 or 80 years old and had been on the Geriatrics Ward for close to twenty years From morning until bed· time he lay in the dayroom in a gurney bed against the wall, on his side under a sheet, his little head covered with a faint silver gossamer that seemed too delicate to be human hair—it looked more like a fungus mycelium joining the head to the pillow — and his mouth drooling a continual puddle at his cheek. Only his eyes moved, pale and bright blue they followed the activity in the ward like little caged birds. The only sound he made was a muffled squeeking back in his throat when he had dirtied his sheets and, since his bowels were usually impacted, like most of the inmates who couldn’t move. this sound was made but rarely and even then, seemed to exhaust him for hours.
One afternoon, as I made my rounds to probe with rectal thermometer at the folds or wasted glutinous maximus of these gurney bed specimens – hospital policy made it clear that the temperature of anything breathing, even vegetables, had to be logged once a month. I heard this stifled squeek. I looked up; it was Freddy’s squeek but since it was his temperature I was attempting to locate I knew that he hadn’t shit his sheets, I resumed my probing, somewhat timidly, for the flesh of these men is without strength and a probe in the wrong direction can puncture an intestine. The squeek came again, slower, and sounding remarkably like speech! I moved closer to the pink and toothless mouth, feeling his breath at my ear.
“Makes you kind of nervous, don’t it?” he squeeked.
The voice was terribly strained and faltering, but even through the distortion you could clearly make out the unmistakable tone of intelligence and awareness and, most astonishingly, humor.
In the days that followed I brought my ear to that mouth as often as the nurses, let me get away with it. He told me his story. A stroke years ago had suddenly clipped all the wires leading from the brain to the body. He found that while he could hear and see perfectly, he couldn’t send anything back out to the visitors that dropped by his hospital bed more and more infrequently. Finally they sent him to the VA, to this ward where, after years of effort, he had learned to make his little squeek. Sure, the doctors and nurses knew he could talk, but they were too busy to shoot the breeze and didn’t really think he should exhaust himself by speaking. So he was left on his gurney to drift alone in his rudderless vessel with his short· wave unable to send. He wasn’t crazy; in fact, the only difference that I could see between Freddy and Buddha· was in the incline of their lotus position. As I got to know him I spoke of the young aides’ thought. “Let a man die for his own good?” he squeeked, incredulous.
“Never believe it. When a man, when anything, is ready to stop living it stops. You watch.”
Before I left the ward, two of the vegetables died. They stopped eating and died, as though a decision of the whole being was reached and nothing man or medicine could do would turn this decision, as though the decision was cellularly unanimous, (I remember a friend telling me about her attempted suicide; she lay down and placed a rag soaked in carbon tetrachloride over her face. But just before she went out completely, there was a sudden clamor from all the rest of her: “Hey! Wait! What about us? Why weren’t we consulted!?” And being a democratic girl at heart she rallied over mind’s presumptuous choice. “Our mind has no right to kill our body!.” she told me after the attempt! “Not on the grounds of boredom, anyway.”) and that met with the satisfaction of all concerned.
Punishment of unwed mothers? Bullshit! Care of neither the old nor the young can be considered to be punishment for the able, not even the care of the un-dead old or the un-born young. These beings, regardless not only of race, creed and color but as well of size, situation or ability, must be treated as equals and their rights to life not only recognized but defended. Can they defend themselves?
You are you from conception, and that never changes no matter what physical changes your body takes. And the virile sport in the Mustang driving to work with his muscular forearm tanned and ready for a day’s labor has not one microgram more right to his inalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness than has the three-month’s fetus riding in a sack of water or the vegetable rotting for twenty years in a gurney bed. Who’s to know the value or extent of another’s trip? How can we assume that the world through the wind shield of that Mustang is any more rich or holy or even sane than the world before those pale blue eyes? How can abortion be anything but fascism again, back as a fad in a new intellectual garb with a new and more helpless, victim?
I swear to you, Paul, that abortions are a terrible karmic bummer, and to support them – except in cases where there is a bona fide toss-up between the child and the mother’s life— is to harbor a worm of discrepancy
Krassner: Well, that’s really eloquent and mistypoo but suppose Faye were raped and became pregnant in the process?
Kesey: Nothing is changed. You don’t plow under the corn because the seed was planted with a neighbor’s shovel.
Krassner: I assume that it would be her decision, though?
Kesey: Almost certainly. But I don’t really feel right about speaking for her. Why don’t you phone and ask?
[Krassner phones Faye Kesey in Oregon and reviews the dialogue. She asks: “Now, what’s the question, if I were raped, would I get an abortion?” Krassner: “That about sums it up.” Faye Kesey: “No, I wouldn’t.”]
Ken Kesey, author of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest: “You are you from conception, and that never changes no matter what physical changes your body takes. And the virile sport in the Mustang driving to work with his muscular … Continue reading →
The most paradoxical and at the same time the most unique and characteristic claim made by Christianity is that in the Resurrection of Christ the Lord from the dead, man has completely conquered death, and that “in Christ” the dead will rise again to enjoy eternal life, in spiritualized and transfigured bodies and in a totally new creation. This new life in the Kingdom of God is to be not merely a passively received inheritance but in some sense the fruit of our agony and labor, love and prayers in union with the Holy Spirit. Such a fantastic and humanly impossible belief has generally been left in the background by the liberal Christianity of the 19th and early 20th centuries, but anyone who reads the New Testament objectively must admit that this is the Doctrine of the first Christians. Indeed, Christianity without this fabulous eschatological claim is only a moral system without too much spiritual consistency. Unless all Christianity is centered in the victorious, living, and ever present reality of Jesus Christ, the Man-God and conqueror of death, it loses its distinctive character and there is no longer any justification for a Christian missionary apostolate. In point of fact, such an apostolate without the resurrection of the dead, has tended to be purely and simply an apostolate for western cultural and economic “progress,” and not a true preaching of the Gospel.
Merton, Thomas (1999-11-29). The New Man (Kindle Locations 45-54). Macmillan. Kindle Edition.