Terri Meets Her Maker
She went through hell for 15 years. But heaven will more than make up for it.


April 1 2005
Counterbias.com
Steve Horowitz


The scene: Heaven. An elevator opens and deposits a restored Terri Schiavo – looking as she did before her heart stopped at the age of 25 – at the entrance to a smoky, wood-paneled bar. A band is playing on a dimly lit stage in the back. She can make out Buddy Holly, Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Ray Charles, Freddy Mercury, Janis Joplin, Marvin Gaye, John Lennon, George Harrison, Roy Orbison, Elvis and many others; Karen Carpenter is leading them through a rocking rendition of "Yesterday Once More."

The place is packed but not uncomfortable as gorgeous men and women in tight shorts and t-shirts serve endless pitchers of beer, shots of tequila and Jack Daniels, cocktails, wings, cheeseburgers and fresh-shucked oysters. The crowd enjoys the music, some dancing, others singing along. No one hoots "Whoo!"

From a small table near the entrance a man rises and heads toward where Terri stands, unsure of where to go. He's dressed in Levi's, loafers, a white dress shirt and a tan sport coat. His beard and long, flowing hair are shiny silver.

"Hi, Terri," he says, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. "I'm God. Welcome to heaven."

Terri is instantly at ease as God takes her by the hand and leads her past the booths that line the back of the bar. She notices Jesus, Buddha, Vishnu, Mohammed and Moses absorbed in a game of Trivial Pursuit.

God ushers her into an office and shuts the door. "Please, Terri, sit. You'll be nothing but comfortable from now on."

Terri sits on a leather sofa. God goes to a small bar in the corner and returns with a white wine spritzer. Terri is pleasantly surprised. "How did you ... Oh. Right." She takes a sip. It's crisp, cold and bubbly.

God sits in a plush leather club chair. He holds a glass of honey-brown Scotch; the ice cubes melt and resettle in his hands.

"Terri, I want you to know how happy we are to have you here. We know you've been waiting a long time."

Terri nods and takes another sip of her spritzer. She notices pictures on the wall behind a desk: God with Babe Ruth, God with JFK, a recent one with Frank Sinatra ...

"I know you have many questions," God continues. "Please – ask away."

Terri gulps down the last of her drink, realizing how good it is to taste, to swallow. A woman appears with another spritzer, frosty cold, and bowls of chips and salsa. She dips a chip into the salsa and bites down, reveling in the crunch. The chip makes no crumbs; no salsa drips.

The woman is gone.

"Well, first of all," Terri says, still chewing, "why did you let my heart stop?"

God nods.  "Of course. You have to understand that my control is limited. I created heaven and earth, yes. I'm all-seeing and all-knowing, yes. But beyond that, things work as they will, sometimes with my knowledge, sometimes not. And I can't intercede in every life."

God pauses, sips his drink. "You were bulimic, Terri. Your potassium levels were way out of whack. You have to take responsibility for that."

Terri nods, embarrassed. She notices that her figure is ideal, as slim and toned as she ever wished it. She peers down her blouse. Her breasts are high and firm.

"Heavenly. I know," God says. He opens a gold case. "Cigarette?"

Terri says nothing, makes no move. "Don't worry," God says. "You're already dead."

Terri takes one and lets God light it with a beat-up Zippo. She inhales deeply; it's a rich blend of Turkish and Virginia tobaccos with ... is that a trace of hashish?

"All right, I'll take responsibility for that. But why didn't you let me ... recover? Or just die? Do you know that I spent 15 years like a ... like a ..."

"Potato," God says. "Yes, I know. And I'm sorry."

"That's it? You're sorry?"

God shrugs. "I didn't anticipate that."

"You didn't ... what the ... you're God, for Christ's sake!"

Jesus pokes his head in the door, a stack of Trivial Pursuit cards in his hand. Music wafts in; Elvis is singing "Mystery Train."

"Someone call me, Dad?"

God waves Jesus away, and he shuts the door.

"Another spritzer?" he asks Terri.

"Vodka. Straight up," she says sullenly.

The woman appears again, sets down the drink and some fresh salsa, and is gone.

"I understand your frustration," God says, stroking his beard. "But as I said, there's only so much I can control. Mankind has developed medical knowledge and skills that none of us here ever imagined. We're proud of you all, of course. But sometimes things don't ... work out the way we planned."

God leans forward in his chair. "Let me ask you something, Terri. Would you have preferred to die?"

"Of course I would have preferred to die! I said so, didn't I? At least twice, to Michael and some relatives."

"Yes, you said so. Unfortunately, you didn't write it down."

"I was only 25! What 25-year-old prepares a will?"

God nods. "Yes, that would have been unusual. At least Michael did his part. He fought to honor your wishes for many years. But your parents – they felt otherwise."

Terri drains her vodka and gestures for another cigarette. God obliges.

"My parents think all life is precious. Are they wrong?"

"No, they're not wrong. What they fail to understand – what all those people outside your hospice with the signs and the crosses failed to understand – is that life doesn't end when the body dies. Christians are funny that way. I've said quite clearly that whosoever that believeth in him – Jesus, I mean – shall have everlasting life. Everlasting life! It's not an ambiguous term! And yet these 'believers' (Terri was relieved to see that God doesn't do the quote thing with his fingers) run around trying to convert everyone, and carry "John 3:16" signs to football games – football games, for Christ's sake! – but still go ballistic when a man wants to afford his wife some degree of dignity after 15 years of atrophy, tube-feeding and adult diapers!"

Terri blushes.

Jesus pops his head in again. George Harrison is singing "My Sweet Lord."

"Dad, did you—"

"No! I'll buzz you if I need you!"

"All right, you don't have to yell! Sheesh!"

God rises, shaking his head wearily, and gets himself another Scotch.

He returns and sinks into his chair. "I'm sorry," he says. "I just get wrathful sometimes about people who say they're acting in my name. Or Allah's, or whatever they call me."

He pauses, swirling his drink with his finger, collecting his thoughts. "Life is precious – if you can live it. These Christians worry about frozen embryos, and fetuses, and sperm blocked by a condom. But real, living children are dying every day because of the way wealth and food are distributed. There are living, suffering people dying from poverty and disease, needlessly – in your country, the richest in the world, and all over the world. But your sign carriers, your 'right-to-life' organizations, ignore them. Your government is cutting back the little help it gave. Why isn't Tom DeLay outraged about that? Why doesn't your president, who talks about a 'culture of life' – why doesn't he think those lives are precious?"

Terri, mellowed by the wine, the vodka, and those wonderful cigarettes, listens silently. "I know, I know," God continues, "I'm God and I'm asking questions of someone who's been asleep for 15 years. I already know the answers: 'Culture of life' is just a noble-sounding way of imposing a culture of fear – fear of sex. Because if there's no birth control, no abortion, no way to prevent unwanted pregnancies, people will stop having sex. Right? Except they won't. And when the unwanted babies do come, the 'right to life' becomes 'you're on your own.'"

God sighs and finishes his Scotch. "Crying about embryos and brain-dead people is easy and cheap. Taking care of people actually capable of living, Terri – that's hard."

God lights up a fat Cuban cigar. It doesn't smell at all. "I wish I understood why those people get weirded out about sex. I thought it was one of my better creations."

Terri tries to remember what sex was like, but it's been too long. She wonders about the prospect of heavenly sex; should she ask?

God rises and takes Terri by the hand. "Anyhoo – what say we join the others. The band is hot tonight, and they'll play anything you want."

Terri walks with God to the door. "Is there a cigarette machine?"

"By the restrooms. No money required."

Terri pauses at the door. "I'm just wondering, God – Tom DeLay, and the Bushes, and Randall Terry, and the people on Fox News, and the people with the signs ... what happens to everyone who tried to exploit my situation for their own benefit?"

"Oh, there's a special level of hell reserved just for them," God says, smiling.

"So there is a hell!" Terri exclaims. "With Satan and everything?"

"Worse. At their level, it's Ann Coulter."

Terri looks at God blankly.

"Trust me. They'll suffer."

They step out of God's office and into the bar. Jimi and Stevie Ray are midway through a scorching version of "Sympathy for the Devil."

Terri smiles, wishing she'd arrived sooner.