He’s Dead, Cue the ’90s Banger

by Slickael Q. Forthenauf

I’ve never experienced death—at least, not in the sense of being alive, then not, followed by some extreme light, visions of family, and my first pet tied to all my multi-factor authenticated accounts, only to return to life again. I mean it in the sense of being a spectator, a witness.

I’ve experienced “life” multiple times. I’ve also experienced loss—the passing of my grandparents, father, and sister over a three-year span—but I was never there to witness their actual deaths.

I’ve had to manage the aftermath, dealing with the sordid details that follow, but I had never truly witnessed the event itself. The event of transitioning, as some would call it—a hospice term used too often, where the body surrenders to age or illness. I had only ever experienced death in the past tense. As a child, my parents shielded me from the emotional fallout of losing a grandparent. Later, it was a hysterical phone call or the inevitable consequence of poor choices. But I never experienced death until this one event.

I can’t recall the exact day, the year, or even the season. I can’t tell you what I or my family was doing. And yet, that day is engraved in my memory, as if carved in stone—or preserved in a 40-year-old middle school history textbook. A mental Polaroid snapshot. It started, like most family tragedies, with a phone call.

It was my wife’s father. I remember the panic and despair in her voice, the occasional fragments I overheard—
“WHAT?! What do you mean?”
“What are they saying? Where is he? Where are you?!”
“…how much time?”

We raced to the hospital. I don’t remember the drive. I don’t remember the name of the hospital or where it was. I don’t recall where we parked or if we struggled to find his room. What I do remember, vividly, is standing at his bedside, surrounded by family. Eleven of us, staring at him, his body incapacitated on an elevated hospital bed, encircled by the expected beeps and whirrs of life-supporting equipment and the dull, warm hum of a wall-mounted television.

It wasn’t long before the alarms from the monitors started to make themselves known. Family members informed us of the standing Do Not Resuscitate order, so we simply stood there and watched. There was no appearance of pain or discomfort. Some family members cried. Others clung to one another in quiet grief. The machine’s rhythms became erratic. Chaos stirred, signaling the end was near.

I have no recollection of the time that passed. The following moments felt frozen—cliché, perhaps, but an experience I have never repeated. Holding my wife, I fixated on her grandfather. I watched as his skin shifted from a warm, pinkish flesh tone to alabaster. The monitors flatlined at the same moment I felt his spirit leave his body. The family patriarch had passed.

His bedside erupted into sobs. Family members reached for the nearest loved one, grasping for comfort.

And then, in perfect, cosmic, universal lockstep—

Montell Jordan’s voice entered the room.

“This is how we—do it! This is how we do it, do it!”

🎶 This is how we do it
It’s Friday night and I feel all right
The party is here on the West side
So I reach for my 40 and I turn it up
Designated driver, take the keys to my truck! 🎶

I immediately looked around, concerned about how the family might interpret this bizarre and untimely interruption. Apparently, I was the only one who noticed or found it inappropriate. Quietly, I reached over and turned off the television.

And then, a thought struck me.

“That was fucking awesome. I hope I go out like this…”

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Slickheal, a former carnival performer who left the “Big Top,” now enjoys sipping Old Fashioneds, collecting vintage vacuums, and scrapbooking with found or donated taxidermy.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.