No Need To Love

By H. C. Turk

The inner life of a man trapped inside himself.

Wendell Calinar, 78, suffers a stroke. The physical result is slight paralysis, but the mental implications—stemming from memory loss—are more profound. A retired history professor, Wendell's culminating interest is in personal history as recorded by individual memory. A nurse speaks of burn patients suffering terribly during treatment who remember none of the pain after healing. She wonders how real that suffering was considering that its physical causes were rescinded and the memory does not continue. What about amnesia victims? Wendell responds. Do they have no past life, only a present? He fears that if a person has no memory at his death, his entire life will be refuted by its ignorant end.

Wendell is stricken by a second stroke, which sends him into a permanent vegetative state (PVS). His visiting family members wonder of his true state of living. They long for insight into this mystery, which Wendell might possess, but cannot release. Wendell has no real-time experience, though inside himself, his life continues, full of events and emotions and family conflict. But all of his perceptions and sensations come to him in the form of recollection—his life becomes only memory. 

NO NEED TO LOVE is the story of Wendell's ending life, describing the caregivers who treat him with compassion and ignorance, following his family members as they learn of living by observing Wendell's death. Conventionally, the narrative point of view is that of the Calinar family. Uniquely, the reader also shares Wendell's point of view, learning the inner living of a person who cannot communicate, but who continues to feel and think until his end.

Note: This novel is not intended to be a medical breakthrough, but humane, artistic insight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. C. Turk
• Release date: Aug 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393918592

Book preview

Chapter 1

Vision With A Void

Arriving home from school, Jennifer Calinar received a demonstration in dying from her grandfather. She ran upstairs to show Grand her Citizen Of The Month award, not merely for her class, but the entire fourth grade. She always showed Grand first because his eyes bulged as he stared down to her progress report or achievement award with stupendous joy. Grand was so funny. But he was not funny now. And his eyes were not bulging, but partially closed, as though being squeezed shut. Shut like holding your poopy in when you have to go, but the bathroom at school is always full of nasty girls calling the younger girls names, so you have to hold it until you get home. Jennifer wondered what Grand was holding in. He was stiff and looked funny—did something hurt? Jennifer felt that he should release whatever inside was bothering him, not keep it in. She did not understand that Grand’s own blood distressed him, a material whose rejection one does not survive.

Then he noticed her. With less apparent discomfort, Wendell looked to his nine-year-old granddaughter, and stuck out his tongue. Smiling, Jennifer turned away, seeing that Grand was only playing. At least some of that had been play, though Jennifer did not know how much. She ran away, seeking her parents to tell them that Grand was either real funny, or real sick.

The feeling was more frightening than painful, a cord of discomfort strung through his left arm and neck, terminating in his skull. Alone in his room, Wendell had been writing a letter to a former student when he was attacked from within. Frightened most by implication, Wendell noticed Jennifer in the doorway as the strange pain began to subside. To avoid frightening the girl, Grand gave her a childish gesture they often shared. Jennifer then left, not appearing upset, and Wendell began examining himself. Not physically, but conceptually. Able to move his arm again, he flexed his hand and bent his elbow, ignoring residual numbness while wondering of its source. He hoped to find a superficial difficulty. A pinched nerve, not a…. The former problem could be resolved at the type of clinics situated beside auto supply stores in suburban mini-malls. By alleviating muscular constrictions, chiropractors could assuage a pinched nerve. But more profound doctoring would be required for….

Wendell had to stand. Remaining seated seemed dangerous. He had to move, get out, get away, before he was stricken again. But his room in son Russell’s house held no danger. Life had become dangerous for Wendell: old age, the end of life, not easily forsaken for ecclesiastical promises of a superior, but more nebulous, ensuing existence.

He faced the wall, staring at framed certificates. Viewing one of the oldest, Wendell tried to recall which war had begun immediately after this part of his education ended. The Second? Korea? Viet Nam? Though he had lived through them all as an historian, not a soldier, in that moment, Wendell could not place the events within his greater life, could not situate these great events within his lesser life. No longer so stiff, and becoming less dazed, Grand stepped to the doorway, understanding his problem with memory. He was seventy-eight. Just like the record, he was past his time, spinning too fast.

Seventy-eight, born in 1920. Only two more years until the next century. Was holding on till then asking for too much?

Wendell did not see Jennifer continue downstairs. Concerned with her grandfather, the girl turned to the kitchen to seek her parents just as the front door opened. Kenneth had returned from school. After dropping his book bag, Jennifer’s sixteen-year-old brother stepped down four inches from the foyer. Jennifer could never understand the purpose of that little rise. She had been tripping over it for years.

That’s weird, Jennifer told her brother, and reached to touch his torn metallic jacket with a nylon dog bone newly tied to the sleeve.

Jesus Christ, don’t touch me, he snarled, and jerked his arm away, not as though Jennifer were an assailant, but a leper.

Gosh, Kenneth! Jennifer yelped, looking down to her finger bumped by the dog bone on Kenneth’s flailing arm.

As though waiting in the adjacent room to protect their daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Calinar stepped from the kitchen after hearing loud speaking. Erin’s arm pressing the swinging door open was extended as though in threat, but husband Russell spoke first.

Hey, why is it you only open your mouth to give Jennie a hard time? he demanded of Kenneth.

Erin would not have wanted tall, hard Russell to confront her with such a growl and glare. Kenneth didn’t seem to mind.

Hey, why does she always have to mess with stuff? mocking Kenneth replied, looking to his fake bone, not his family.

With his long neck, bent shoulders, and narrow face, Kenneth resembled his mother more than his father. Considering the boy’s buzz cut, permanent-marker cheek tattoo, and ludicrous apparel, Russell was glad not to be recognizable in his son. Why didn’t Kenneth buy scuzzy used clothes, like the hippies of Russell’s day, instead of conniving his parents into buying new apparel whose fashion half-life was measurable in days? In the next moment, Russell felt shame for not wanting his boy to look like him. The older son did, but inherited appearance had not caused Raymond’s mess.

Hey, why can’t you be nice to her once in a while? Russell fumed. Afraid of dropping a quart low on your level of teenage coolness?

You’d get along better if you played with your little sister once in a while instead of being rude, Erin suggested to her son.

More verbally intense than usual, Kenneth snapped, "Hey, I don’t play with my little sister!"

As his face accepted a rose-red tinge at capillary level, Kenneth stared briefly at his parents, then ran upstairs. His fleeing recalled Jennifer’s distress in previous years, a seven-year-old with bruised feelers.

Erin and Russell stared at each other, duplicating their son’s final look, though with no change in color. Unlike Kenneth, the Calinar parents felt no need to immediately look away. Even when caused by confusion, Erin’s expression revealed to her husband an intelligence more suited to an executive than an average housewife. Then Russell wondered if the average feminist would deride his view as sexist. Hey, nothing better a woman can do than raise kids, he thought as Erin returned his gaze. Generously Erin felt that, according to his appearance, Russell could have been anything from farmer to attorney. If the former, he would have been the owner of the spread, not a mere bean picker. If the latter, however, Russell would not likely be a full partner.

She did love vegetables.

Run along, Erin said quietly as she turned to her daughter.

Jennifer complied, being uncomfortable around parents’ getting mad at their kids, whatever the parents, whatever the kids. Erin and Russell watched their daughter, on the chubby side of cute, quickly exit the front door. She was supposed to tell them something, but had forgotten when everyone started getting mad, right before Kenneth got weird so quick.

Hey, what was that with Kenneth? Russell wondered as Jennifer closed the door.

It was clearly embarrassment, Erin said. From what, I don’t know.

Geez, he was like a little boy there, all flustered. Weird. At least Jennifer isn’t screwed up yet.

What do you mean, yet? Erin demanded.

Hey, none of them come out messed up. You have to put some work into it.

"What do you mean, I have to—"

Hey, relax, babe. I didn’t mean you, I meant parents.

Russell, the boys’ problems aren’t due to our inadequacies. It’s because they’re boys.

Hey, boys grow up to be men—what’s wrong with that?

Some of them grow up, some don’t. The ones who don’t become the sort of men who start wars. Only men start wars.

Hey, they start countries, too. Men start societies.

Yes, like Youth For Hitler, the KKK.

All right, Erin, I get your point: men suck.

That’s not what I meant.

Hey, what did you mean?

I meant the same thing you did: I hope we do better with Jennifer.

At least he’s not on drugs, just because Raymond is.

Raymond is not using drugs, the mother insisted.

Hey, what do you call alcohol? Your big boy is a drunk.

After a pause, Erin returned, Well, how are you so certain that Kenneth isn’t, isn’t…doing something like that? Underage drinking is a tremendous problem today.

Erin, you sound like an ad for one of those hospitals that detox druggies by sucking out all their money. The reason I know that Kenneth ain’t on drugs is because Dad told me.

What would Grand know about it?

Hey, you saying my dad’s a fool?

Good lord, Russell, don’t overreact. Sometimes you behave like your son. What I’m wondering is how Grand would know the problems of today’s youths. It was a long time since he raised—

‘The problems of today’s youths’? Russell scoffed. Sounds like another fundraiser to me.

Russell, don’t be so difficult, Erin retorted.

All right, all right, I’m saying that Grand is the only one in the house Kenneth will talk to. That’s how he knows he’s not doing drugs. If Kenneth was lying, Dad would know.

Well, if Grand says so, Erin sighed. I suppose I should feel relieved, but….

Wendell felt no greater relief upon leaving his room. Seeing Kenneth run upstairs was a rapid respite from self-concern. The boy was flushed, passing his grandfather without acknowledgment, proceeding rapidly to his room. Grand followed.

A wad of bubble gum at the head of the stairs stopped him. Pressed into carpet fibers along the baseboard, the gum had been darkened and compacted by time into a black pad the size of a thumbnail. Wendell could not recall which grandchild had dropped it. Then again, he could not recall if the gum had been present when he moved in those four years ago. Or was it five? This wasn’t supposed to be permanent. Nothing is permanent. What a wonderful thought, Wendell felt, that not even old age is permanent. What a terrible idea.

Grand knocked on Kenneth’s door.

Beat it, the boy called out dully.

It’s your favorite grandfather, Wendell replied. What do you want me to beat? Your cranium? Thorax? Duodenum? World record score in the decathlon?

Come on in, Kenneth allowed with minimal enthusiasm.

Wendell opened the door. Kenneth lay on his bed, examining the jacket of his latest record. Not tape or CD, but an LP. Some music is only available on vinyl. New Phlegm’s first recording, Squeeze The Bunnies And Make Them Fart. The cover art illustrated the title in crude cartoons that neither offended nor amused Wendell. At least Kenneth wasn’t playing it.

Is that your latest? Grand wondered, nodding toward Kenneth’s 1/24th-scale convertible with a crash dummy beheaded by the broken windshield, blood puddling on the hood. Aren’t plastic toys too cool for you? Or is that real blood?

Geez, you’re starting to sound like Dad, Kenneth sneered.

I came first, remember, Grand offered. I was just like him when younger, and he was just like you.

Yeah, what, he had tattoos on his butt?

No, he grew up during the hippy era. Hair to his shoulders.

You’re kidding.

Nope.

I bet he looked stupid.

I thought he did, but I was wrong, Grand replied, still standing.

Yeah, and maybe there’s nothing wrong with models.

I liked them. Except ours were all metal.

In your century, they hadn’t invented plastic, right? Kenneth smirked.

No, didn’t have crash dummies, either. They used real teenagers.

Kenneth’s smirk widened. Grand could scarcely remember when Kenneth’s smile had been as sweet as Jennifer’s.

They still make cast metal models, Kenneth added. The good ones are real expensive.

Looking to the ceiling, Grand mused, Were mine cast all in one piece, or were they sheet metal, and I had to assemble them with tiny nuts and bolts…?

Hey, you’re thinking of erector sets, Kenneth offered. I had one when I was a kid. They’re plastic now, Grandpa.

Hey, don’t call me ‘Grandpa,’ Wendell scowled. Geez, I dislike that—it’s so phony-folksy. Calling me that was one of your brother’s few habits I found irksome. But I broke him of it. And I’ll break you, too—perhaps in pieces.

Kenneth laughed with the sound of a mule, and Wendell told him:

That’s better. I’d rather be called ‘Snort’ than ‘Grandpa.’

Sitting on the hard chair before Kenneth’s small desk, Wendell looked closely to his amused grandson. Average in height, weight, not shaving yet, not wearing adult clothing, but a tee shirt with a colorful caricature of a phallus-shaped racing car with the caption, Grand Pricks. On his back with one knee up, one leg outstretched, Kenneth was not sprawling, but nearly graceful, reminiscent of his mother. He repetitively poked a corner of the record jacket against his palm, and spoke again. Wendell wondered why he noticed Kenneth so fully in that moment. Perhaps Kenneth’s topic was influential, the subject of moment.

I heard somewhere that when old people start forgetting things, it’s because their brain cells are deteriorating, or disintegrating. Whatever word. Then he shrugged.

If so, do the individual cells cough out what they’ve been retaining and thereafter expire? Grand replied.

Hey, I just heard it, Kenneth shrugged. I’m not trying to be smart or anything. Maybe I didn’t hear it all.

I’m not being smart, either, Kenneth. I’m trying to figure out your idea. I think that ‘disintegrate’ is not the proper term for aging brain cells. ‘Deteriorate,’ perhaps, but in the sense of the mechanism for retrieving and associating memories, not the storage cells themselves. Perhaps ‘reintegrate’ would be the best term. The effect for me is a lessened ability to distinguish recent memories from those much older.

You sound like the old professor again. You retired, Grand, remember?

Wendell displayed a foolishly haughty look of extreme intelligence, nose in the air, cheeks pulled in. Kenneth did not like his grandfather’s stiff movements, his white hair thin as a cloud, his facial wrinkles, but the old guy was a trip.

I’ve been here four years—

Five.

I’ve been here for years, and this day feels the same as the first. The experiences don’t seem separated by four years.

Five.

Emotion is the same as memory, Wendell added, lifting one of Kenneth’s models: a bright red ’27 phone-booth T street rod. I remember my dad bringing home brochures from car dealers. The Model A Ford—God, the T was such a barn in comparison—and I used to love the twenty-sevens. I was just a couple years younger than you. My first car was a B. Of course, the ’32 had already been made obsolete, aesthetically, by the ’33, ’34. But I loved it. I’ll never forget the sound of the four-banger in my own car. But some things about memory, experience, and emotion aren’t the same. Cars gave me true joy as a young adult, but I can no longer distinguish the pleasure of experiencing them from the satisfaction of merely reading the ads. It all seems the same now.

That has something to do with getting real old, Kenneth professed with a tone of farcical wisdom.

When you’re young, getting older is good. Being a teen is better than being a child; being an adult is better than a teen; being middle-aged is better than being young, because everyone takes you seriously. But becoming old is no improvement. That’s where the progression ends. But I always felt good about every change in life.

Do you still? Kenneth asked, showing some genuine interest. Considering that….

Considering that I have no place left to go but the grave?

Geez, I didn’t mean that, man, Kenneth insisted. I mean, considering that, you know, you’re living with your kid, and don’t have a lot of stuff.

After a pause, looking down at the plastic model, Wendell said, It’s certainly not the same.

Well, I’m not having fun, either, Kenneth scowled. I think being a kid sucks. Teens who want to be teens forever are stupid. I can’t wait to get out of this shit.

What shit is that? Wendell asked. Then the phone rang.

Kenneth leapt up to gently lift the receiver, covering the mouthpiece, only listening. During the next few minutes, silent Kenneth made odd expressions with his eyes and mouth that his grandfather could not read. Then Kenneth returned the phone, and bounded to the door.

Raymond is coming here! he whispered hoarsely, and ran from the room.

Wendell followed. He had not seen his eldest grandchild in a year. He could not recall when last he had seen Raymond sober. Then again, Wendell’s memory had been proven to be in a state of reintegration. Perhaps segregation would be next, he thought, in which he would find himself separated from his memories. Entering the upper story hallway, Grand recalled the largest, most expensive aircraft model he had owned as a boy. Then he felt an emotion that he could not place, could not integrate. Either he wished that he still had the toy, or wished he still desired it as he had decades ago. But the thought and the sought desire left Grand as he began walking. Following Kenneth, Wendell found that he had to rub his arm, his neck.

Downstairs, Erin answered the telephone. Russell did not understand her expression. Not a word at first, only wide eyes and parted lips as she looked to the floor. Erin was surprised, yes, but from news of a car wreck, illness, a million-dollar sweepstakes win? With his wife’s first words, Russell understood, but still didn’t know if the news were good or bad.

Baby, where are you?

The oldest always