Death Be Not Proud

 

Way back at Westwood School in Mrs. Dorsey’s 6^th grade Language Arts class, we read John Gunther’s poignant book about his son Johnny’s illness and death at age 17. I still remember the effect that Death Be Not Proud had on me. It must have been a curious thing to teach about death to 12-year olds. But I remember that it was not a morbid or scary experience, rather, we talked in class about how suffering is a part of life, and all too often wonderful people are taken long before “their time.”

A week ago on Friday, via Facebook, I read the news that John David Charles Thornton had died in Indianapolis, after his long bout with cancer. Dave had been in that 6^th grade class with me. Tears filled my eyes as I thought of this childhood friend. Images from my childhood careened through my brain, and I remembered exploring Death Be Not Proud with Dave in my reading group. But it was more than just this 6^th grade class that came back to me—David and I had gone through every single grade together from Kindergarten to senior year of high school. From 1969 to 1982, Dave and I had shared every school day together!

As I thought of childhood birthday parties at his house, and Cub Scout outings, and high school performances with Studio Choir, and our meetings with our beloved Pickwick Club in our senior year,  I kept coming back to the messages of that book we read long ago in 6^th grade, Death Be Not Proud. In the book we learn that Johnny Gunther was only seventeen years old when he died of a brain tumor. During the months of his illness, everyone near him was unforgettably impressed by his level-headed courage, his wit and quiet friendliness, and, above all, his unfaltering patience through times of despair (wow—just like David). The book is about his illness, of course, but ultimately about embracing life and loving life.

Dave Thornton loved life. In the last few years—joined again because of the miracle of Facebook—we would meet for lunch or dinner and talk about our lives, our growing up years in Westwood, and most importantly how we loved teaching. When Facebook reunited us in 2009, we were in our mid-40s, not having seen each other in over 25 years. I loved learning about Dave at these quick lunches over Skyline Chili, hearing about his work at the same high school for 20 years, coaching, working with musical groups, and finally, how he found the love of his life and enjoyed his two little girls. Dave had carved out the kind of niche in life we all seek—happiness, fulfillment, challenges, and love.

So in these days since the announcement of Dave’s far-too-early death, I have thought about how our paths crossed in our lives. While Dave was always smart, he was not always compliant, and I remember several examples in our childhood of a teacher’s exasperation with him. In 1^st grade, with Mrs. Drummer, once in awhile she would say his whole name, slowly, her voice rising in frustration with each syllable: “John David Charles Thornton!!” In 4^th grade, in Mrs. Greer’s math class, Dave decided to throw a desk out of the second floor window to see what happened. Again, the halls of Westwood reverberated with his name! This, in retrospect, might have been one of the first public examples of his brawn as well.

David and I ended up in the same classes year after year. We moved through Gamble Junior High together, and his house was just a minute or so walk from school and we could go there and watch Batman. David began spending more time with the football team as I spent time on music, but we were never far from a class together. In high school, David joined Studio Choir, and then in our senior year, Mrs. Michaels chose us both to be in her exclusive Dickens class. We read The Pickwick Papers first and Mrs. Michaels asked us to choose a character with whom we identified. David chose “Nathaniel Winkle,” a young friend of Mr. Pickwick, someone who considers himself a sportsman, though he turns out to be dangerously inept when handling horses and guns. This was a perfect fit for Dave since in real life he was the best athlete in the school, excelling at every sport. Indeed, on Class Day, Dave would be chosen the Best All-Around Boy in the school (look up to the photo to see that selection for the Class of 1982!).

Our good friend Dawn invited us out to lunch last summer—we three had not been together in (gulp!) 30 years and it was a long overdue lunch to catch up with all of us together. When I announced plans for this spring break, Dawn quickly secured a night when all three of us could meet again and enjoy each other. By that time Dawn and I had realized that the cancer had returned for David, and while he did not dwell on it, we talked about his health issues and he assured us he was doing all right. We three each drove about 50 miles and met in a charming old inn in Batesville, Indiana. Again, we laughed as talked about old times, our teachers, and where life had taken us. We planned to meet again this June for another dinner. I had no idea that that sweet night in March would be the last time I saw my childhood friend.

Dave’s wife started a blog to relay the current situation about Dave’s sickness. She talked of the ups and downs, and how he had wanted to be there on the day his students took their AP exam. He was indeed there, cheering them on, and died soon after that milestone.

As I looked back over my childhood and youth with David, I kept coming back to that book we read in Mrs. Dorsey’s class. I have no idea if in the 6^th grade we looked at the John Donne poem upon which the Gunther book title is based, but I checked it out on-line to give it a ponder. Here are the 17^th century words that Englishman John Donne penned about the Goliath of Death:

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and souls deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more, death thou shalt die!

 

From the get-go the speaker starts talking smack to Death. Death isn't so scary! Then he calls Death a "slave" and weak and defeat-able. Yeah, Death--take that! It is strange thinking how death comes, like a thief in the night, and spirited away this brave, intelligent and vibrant friend. As in Gunther's book, our confusion might lead to epiphanies about beliefs in larger purposes, and indeed, this poem asks us to look at the harrowing episode of death to make us perhaps finer, subtler, and more sensitive about life.

 

We know Death will win, but Death need not be proud. David fought a valiant fight; and, along the way, he gained even deeper respect from his family, friends, his students, his colleagues, and no doubt his doctors, and perhaps strangers.

David’s wife wrote in her blog that David was often able to function at a level that could almost be called “normal,” but no matter what new treatments they tried, they couldn't find a cure. The struggle against death is a fight against the void, against the loss of life—the spark. It is, as Gunther says in his memoir of Johnny:  “A primitive to-the-death struggle of reason against violence, reason against disruption, reason against brute unthinking force--this was what went on in Johnny's head. What he was fighting against was the ruthless assault of chaos. What he was fighting for, as it were, the life of the human mind.”

What I remember from our 6^th grade discussions is that we must love life more, be more aware of life, of one’s fellow human beings, of the earth.  Those are wonderful thoughts for 12 year-olds and anyone else traipsing around the planet. As I thought of these words from over 35 years ago, I thought back to David’s fulfilled life, and how my grief was not about metaphysical issues, universal laws, or deities, but that David would no longer be here on earth to enjoy the blessings on earth.

I went through school from Kindergarten through 12^th grade with two friends: David Thornton and Kathy Gardner. We were friends in Mrs. Gardner’s kindergarten class, and friends through senior year at Western Hills High School. I haven’t seen Kathy since graduation in 1982—this is a good summer to find her again, talk about our growing up, the wonder we enjoyed in Westwood School, the tumult of junior high, the coming-of-age in high school. We should toast our good buddy David, thank the stars that we had an idyllic childhood, and that we had friends to know us since our childhood. David’s courageous battle will not soon be forgotten, and I will curate our memories of boyhood. The Pickwick Club is missing its audacious and tender-hearted sportsman!