Indian Chants:
Revelations
from the Deathbed
Carmen Brooks
December, 2005
Seventeen years ago, my grandfather died from lung cancer.
He shared strange thoughts with the family the day before he slipped into a coma.
We all thought he was having hallucinations.
We were wrong.
Porter, my mother’s father, looked
just like a full-blooded Indian: tanned skin, hooked nose, and a head full of
healthy silver hair. Once, when he
visited Cherokee,
Papaw was actually only a quarter Apache Indian; the rest of his family tree was Irish. The only telling characteristic in his appearance that he wasn’t a purebred Indian were his light gray eyes. He used to make jokes that, being Irish-American Indian, he was bound to be a drunk that couldn’t handle his liquor. He worked hard, all of his life, like a good Irishman is supposed to do—worked hard and played hard. It was upon his deathbed, however, that the Indian in him was the strongest.
“Black Lung”
I was 10 when my Papaw’s old job at
the coal mines caught up with him—the same age he had been when he started working
in the mines. He was in his 80’s when
the deadly souvenir left in his chest from years of the dirty work killed
him. The doctors said he had what they
called “Black Lung,” which is a type of lung cancer resulting from inhaled coal
dust. After countless treatments, the
cancer continued to eat away at him, revealing the old Indian warrior
inside. Lying there in the hospital bed,
still as could be, 
he looked like a little ceramic Indian Chief
doll. He didn’t talk or move much for
the pain that consumed his body and mind, but his eyes were inspirational—despite
the disease, life shined through. Like
every ill person, he had his good and bad days.
On his best day, after weeks of silence, the Indian chanted truth. Of course, the family didn’t understand that
yet. We didn’t see the obvious mark of
promising death, either—the terminally ill always get better just before they
die.
The “Death Rattle” and the Bright Light
Papaw had been in the hospital for about a month. The day before he fell into a coma, the family was called in. My aunt claimed to have heard rattled breathing, called the “death rattle,” a signal death is very near. My aunt was—and is—very dramatic, but the entire family showed up that morning. We were all sitting in the sterile, whitewashed hospital room when Papaw spoke. He sat up slowly and shielded his eyes.
“El”, he said, “close ‘at shade, tha sun’s a shinin’ directly in my eye’s.”
Ellen, my Mamaw, was sitting beside him in the same clothes she had been wearing for a week. Her red hair was oily and matted. She was 66 years old, but she looked much older due to the strain and stress that had taken up residence on her face. She refused to leave Papaw’s side. Mamaw raised her eyebrows and glanced around at the rest of the family. Papaw hadn’t spoke in days.
“Porter,” she said, “there ain’t no windows in here. Jest lay back down, honey.”
Papaw drew in his eyebrows, confused for just a moment, then faintly smiled. He positioned the pillow behind his back, sat upright, and adjusted his oxygen tube with shaking hands. He looked around at the family and began to speak. We all moved in closer, shoulder-to-shoulder, eager to hear his voice. For that moment, the entire family was together, focused only on him. We didn’t understand most of what he said at the time. We assumed it was the morphine talking, but we respected the old man, so we listened as he talked of his “visions.”
His Visions…
Papaw talked for about an hour, taking short breaks to catch his breath or get a sip of water. He talked about working the earth, his feelings about God, and his family. He remembered his youth on the farm and how difficult it was for him the first time he had to ring a chicken’s neck. I remember he said that God must have that same feeling of guilt each time he takes a person from their family.
When he said that he would be with his father on Father’s Day, we felt pity for him. His father had been dead for over 30 years—“Poor man can’t remember his daddy’s funeral,” someone whispered. He heard the comment, I’m sure, but continued without missing a beat.
When he spoke of a granddaughter, I listened intently. I hoped he would say something about me, though there were ten of us girls. He mentioned no names, but said that a granddaughter would have a child at a very young age. I believed him and was frightened out of my mind—I assumed he was talking about me since I was his favorite.
The last thing he ever said, after wishing my mother a happy birthday (he always remembered birthdays), was addressed to my Mamaw.
“El,” he said unevenly, as he looked intently at her face, “I don’t want you here when I go. Git on home ‘n git some rest. I ain’t got long now.”
My mother’s mouth fell open, someone else started crying. It was the first time he ever actually mentioned his own death. Mamaw arose quickly from her chair beside his bed to face him.
“Porter,” she said with a catch in her throat, “I ain’t goin’ nowhere and you know it. Now stop talkin’ nonsense and git some sleep.”
He slowly smiled at her, love radiating from every wrinkle, and winked. He was winded and tired from talking; he had to lie down. The family took our turns hugging him, whispering “I love you’s” in his ear. I remember the smell of his breath, old, yet sweet, when he called me his “little sweat bee,” the Indian name he had given me due to my recurrent tempter-tantrums That was the last time I saw those gray eyes full of life. Later that night, he did as Mamaw had asked; he slipped into a deep sleep.
…Come to Pass
After
five days of being in a coma, Papaw quit struggling for breath. Someone had convinced Mamaw to go home, get a
bath, and hot food—she had just walked through the door when she received the
phone call. As Papaw had wanted, she
wasn’t there to witness his death. He
was holding on, waiting for Mamaw to finally leave the room.
Papaw’s wake and burial, typically held on the third day after death, was to be held on Father’s Day. To our surprise, he was with his Father on that day after all.
Other things Papaw said that day have proved true. Eight years ago, my cousin Tammy, had a baby at age 16 as he had predicted. She named him Porter, Jr. after her mother’s persistence.
Today, Papaw’s visions live on. He comes to visit every now and then. The old Indian is still talking, bringing us visions in our sleep. Several years ago, my father had a dream that Papaw was standing in our front yard. He told my dad that a piece of land our neighbors had fenced in was actually ours. When Dad woke up, he told my mom about it. Mom started sobbing. “Today would have been his birthday,” she said. We thought it was a coincidence. Several months later, we found out that the land was my dad’s after having the property surveyed before putting the house up for sale. The piece of land happened to be the very spot Papaw had thrown out a chewed tobacco plug while staying with us. The neighbor that had fenced in the land charged over and cussed him—she actually had no right to confront him at all. The land was my father’s—the coincidence was eerie. These visions happen often to those of us who knew Papaw best.
Last night, I had a dream. Papaw and I were in a field, walking toward an Indian village. Someone was singing, “One little, two little, three little Indians…” when, unfortunately, my alarm went off. I’ve been thinking of him all day today. I can’t wait to go to sleep tonight. I am eager to hear what he has to reveal…