Speaker for the Dead

A few months ago, I listened to Orson Scott Card’s science fiction novel Speaker for the Dead on audiobook. At the conclusion was a recorded post-script by the author, who explained that even though it was the book’s indirect prequel that he’s most known for—Ender’s Game—this was the novel he had always wanted to write. (Both won the prestigious Nebula Award and Hugo Award.)

   

In the sequel, Andrew “Ender” Wiggin devotes his life to being a “speaker for the dead”—someone who is invited to speak at funerals but doesn’t eulogize the deceased. Instead, the Speaker researches the person’s life and speaks the full and honest truth—no matter how painful it is for all in attendance to swallow. It makes him a lot of enemies, but he as well as many others consider his occupation to be a great honor.

Back on June 10, I sat in a patio chair on a back porch with a member of my church congregation so she could talk about losing her son 15 years ago to cancer.

For almost an hour and a half, with a Sony digital recorder on the table and my laptop on my lap, I sat back in silence and let her do almost all the talking. Fifteen years ago, she went through an ordeal every parent dreads—watching her own child suffer and die. Barely a year out of high school in 1997, he was diagnosed with the cancer that eventually killed him over two years later.

Through all the sufferings she endured and through all the miracles she witnessed around the time of his death—and all the times she’s felt his post-mortal presence in the form of a recurring rainbow motif—she’s never written any of these experiences down.

That’s why I was there. She couldn't bring herself to write it down, but she could talk about it. And once she got going, she couldn't stop. Thoughts came flooding into her mind with such ferocity that it frustrated her that she could barely keep up. My follow-up interview with her was a week later—only two days after her late son’s birthday. She talked for almost two hours.

With nearly three and a half hours of recordings, I went to work transcribing. At a rate of five hours transcribing to one hour of recording, factoring in a day job with deadlines and business trips, I hacked away at it until I finished it earlier this month and returned it to her for fact-checking. Her initial embarrassment, believing she sounded incoherent, gave way to excitement and relief that these experiences are now on paper. She even gave me a few referrals—other women in the area who have lost children but haven’t been able to bring themselves to write down the experiences.

One of those women, also in my church congregation, I spoke with over the phone just this afternoon. Not realizing the significance of today—Sept. 23—I called her up but found her emotionally vulnerable rather than her usual boisterous self. Of all days for me to call, it just happens to be the 15^th anniversary of the day she buried her own son. (Both of these men died almost a month apart from each other.)

She told me about the miraculous events surrounding her son’s funeral. Instead of a rainbow motif as a sign of her son’s post-mortal presence, it’s the presence of eagles where she sees the little miracles in her life and finds extra needed comfort.

Just like the other woman in my congregation, this woman has never written any of these experiences down.

That’s where I come in. I may not be a “Speaker for the Dead,” but I am a listener. And a recorder. And a transcriber. And a writer.

So I guess you could say I’m pretty close.