Stand Fast Craigellachie

He was a Grant through and through, though a visitor at the Rehab Center could never guess it by looking at him. A victim of acute brainstem damage, the six-foot five-and-a-half-inch man's stare was as blank as his immobile body. But everyone who knew John Kenneth was aware what lay beneath the catatonic blankness: A will so powerful it could be described only as raw defiance.

Always a proud family, the Grants claimed heritage as far back as Ninth Century Scotland and Kenneth MacAlpine, the then king. They carried self-royalty in their hearts and wills reinforced by the derivation of Grant itself: The French word grand, which they boastfully said meant great. American descendants since have upheld their ancestry by proudfully wearing ties made of the famous Black Watch tartan so coveted by the Highland protectors.

Like their Thirteenth Century Scot counterparts of Inverness, the United States Grants became men of law. Their strong sense of right and never-yielding made them excellent Sheriffs and military men. But even when they weren't protecting the land and its people, the descendants all bore powerful wills. Their favorite words were autonomy, self-sovereignty, and independent. Many men in the long line had been known to will things to happen. It was this that made John Grant's condition so paradoxical.

To the casual observer John Kenneth was a vegetable and would be for

the rest of his life. He could do nothing voluntarily but blink his eyes and, with the most excruciating pain, take about four breaths a day. He received his air from a respirator and food through a J-Tube. He was the exact opposite of his family's epithets: John was completely and absolutely dependent.

Doctors and the Center staff chalked him up as terminal giving him a year to live at most. Like many brainstem patients, they suspected he would die of pneumonia or heart failure. When his condition was complicated by seizures that lasted two hours with only intermittent spells, extreme dehydration from perspiration and blazing temperatures, the experts suspected he could go at any moment.

But that's because they didn't know the Grant will. They didn't know of his ancestor, Gilbert, who had broken his dungeon chains from constant exertion then forced his body through the narrow bars to reek revenge on six English jail keepers. They didn't know how a namesake, Kenneth, had once overcome the decree that no Scot would ever marry into English royalty, yet did by fearless and incessant haranguing of the King himself. Nor did those who expected John to die know of his uncle who'd withstood the most brutal torture the Japanese could contrive during the Second World War and walk away after sending eight guards to their just rewards. The family knew that inside John Kenneth Grant the strongest of wills resided and no brainstem damage would do him in. They knew that the only way he could go was for him to decide to, to give up.

The close family members fully expected John to pull a "Grant Miracle" --- to repattern the severed nerves so, in time, he could function normally. They bided their time as the nurses flitted about emptying urine bags and attaching new IV's; they knew that because of John's large frame healthy nerve paths couldn't be created overnight.

Typically, one of John's brothers, James, searched the records for accounts of patients who had beat all brainstem odds and functioned as if no damage had occurred. He read them to John who could hear but not speak. James was confident that his brother was internalizing the accounts as he hoped, that he'd use them to prove to every white-frocked doctor and busy-body nurse what Grant recovery was all about.

But he, like everyone else, didn't know how the immobile John was reacting inside. They could only surmise that he hadn't lost his will to live and that behind those blank eyes were the defiance that had made the Celtic name famous. Naturally John's wife knew that her husband possessed a strong character. That his stubbornness had few equals and when he dug his heels in there was no sense continuing the discussion. Always practical and an existentialist at heart, Sharon never looked for recovery nor death. She, like her white-clad sisters, just busied herself with John's daily needs. She'd resigned herself to his condition and never expected an end one way or the other. That was partially due to the deep, secretive part of all Grants from Siol Alpine to John, himself: that they never showed or expressed what was going on in their inner-most sanctums. There was no way Sharon Grant could deem what was churning in husband John's head as the huge-framed man stared blankly into space.

One thing that supported those knowledgeable of the famous Grant will was that in spite of the seizures and everything else that dehabilitated John Kenneth, the EEG's always came back normal. There wasn't a single trace of brain damage whatever. Those who bided their time were confident that meant that though John couldn't communicate, he was thinking and talking to himself constantly. And what else could a full-blooded Grant think about but proving that his will power was master.

But as the months wore on, seasons passed, and his condition remained stationary, even James began to wonder. The relatives didn't need to have a family counsel to decide if they should pull John's tubes. The patient's life was his own and no one, NO ONE, had the right to end any Grant's life but the man himself. Nevertheless, because of his invincible will, the man of steel might spend an indeterminable number of years suffering spasm after seizure after stroke never able to speak, breath, eat, or walk again. It wasn't until the beginning of John's third immobile year that with supreme fraternal feeling, brother James approached the patient.

"Look, John," said James, obviously having thought his subject out completely beforehand, "do nothing and I'll know what I'm about to say is none of my business. But I want you to think about something. Something I suspect no one has mentioned yet."

The blank eyes stared back like an inanimate tape recorder.

"I know you can hear me and understand. So, look. Because your brainstem has been severed and nerves don't function, you're either going to lie there like a potato for the rest of your life, which it seems could be some time yet, you're going to conk out because there's been too much stress and it'll finally get to you, you're going to get your Grant act together and beat this thing, or ..." Here James stared into his brother's eyes as deep as he could. "...or it's time to think of an alternative."

James made sure no one was eavesdropping, then continued. "Don't fret, John, no one's going to pull your plugs. You know that Grants don't do that. If there's any plug-pulling you're going to have to do it yourself, but you can't move a finger so forget that."

James thought he saw a glimmer in his brother's eyes. He continued straight off the shoulder as Grants always spoke to each other. "Look, John, there'snothing wrong with dying.What's keeping you alive is the

Grant will. But what for? Just to prove you can keep on living? Look, when Hemingway knew he was becoming a vegetable he pulled the trigger. To him, causing his own death was better than living ignobly. When he knew he was going he simply decided to go HIS way. But like I say, John, if you decide to go, no one's going to pull your plugs. No one is going to do it TO you. If you decide to end your own life, YOU'RE going to have to do it yourself."

Now James sat back. He allowed some time for his brother to process the information. When he sensed that his brother had mulled the suggestion sufficiently he continued fraternally.

"So, since you can't move a muscle or speak, how in God's name can you end your life? How can you possibly pull it off?"

A rustle behind the curtain proved to be perfect timing. The nurse went through her duty, checking charts, IV dripping, fullness of urine bag, monitors and oscilloscopes and pressures and levels. After the sing-song sweetness bubbled out of the room, James put his face close to his brother's.

"Think about it, John. I'll be back tomorrow."

That night the two-year routine continued. Seizures, sweating, swelling. Fever, spasms, hyperventilation. It was the typical never-ending, tortuous, hopeless, gargantually endured agenda.

The next morning James sat at the side of his beloved brother.

"So, John, you've had time to think about it. And you've undoubtedly come to the question, so how does one will himself to death? Especially when we've been told and retold that it's our duty to exercise the will tolive. How can we possibly reverse this and will ourselves to death?"

James removed a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it ceremoniously, and looked at the article. "This is how one guy did it, John.

Look." The two brothers stared at a picture of an African native lying on the ground with eyes closed. James paraphrased the words.

"It says that the man had lost his family in a brush fire. His wife and kids meant everything and he felt there was nothing to live for. So he lay down and literally willed himself to death. It took only two days. Mind you, John, he didn't starve to death or anything like that. He truly and honestly used only his will power." James tucked the article into his pocket and concluded, "You can do that, John. If you want to."

Not even James, who'd been as close as anyone can to an independent Grant, could tell what effect the message had. In time, however, his reaction was obvious.

John Kenneth Grant was plugged into every life support system known to high-tech man, was electronically monitored constantly, had a nurse at his bedside twenty-four hours a day and a second within shouting distance, and had a doctor only another shout away. In spite of all this, from the moment of James' last visit, the patient's pulse declined steadily. Ammonia, adrenaline, shock, nothing could arrest the steady decline. And, in eighteen hours, John died.

The family was sad he was gone but everyone knew it was for the best. No one, they reasoned, should suffer so intensely for so long. They carried no guilt that they had pulled any plugs or been the cause of any form of euthanasia. Their relative had chosen to stick it out for over two years, then, for a reason unknown to everyone but James, decided to end the torment. Even James felt no pangs. In fact, he felt good. James had given his brother a noble, Grant way out. He was glad for himself and for his brother.

For over a thousand years the stalwart Grants, as far back as the 9th Century King, had been famous for their unswerving, inner power. John

Kenneth was only one of many who followed the famous Scottish war cry.