Host: Dan Kennedy
Dan: [00:01:42] [crowd murmuring] Welcome to The Moth Podcast. I'm Dan Kennedy and this week we've got an entire episode of The Moth Radio Hour for you. Right here, all kinds of great stories. One of my personal favorites is in here, a story from Shannon Cason that is awesome. I hope you love it. Here's The Moth Radio Hour.
[The Moth Radio Hour theme playing]
Meg: [00:02:09] From PRX this is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Meg Bowles from The Moth and I'll be your host this time. The Moth hosts live events around the country where we invite people to take the stage and share true personal experiences from their lives. Today, we bring you three stories from those events. [crowd noise] Tales of high risk, loss, uncertainty and faith. Our first story is from Shannon Cason. Shannon told this in an evening we produced in Kalamazoo, Michigan, presented by Michigan Radio. [cheers and applause] The theme of the night was “Between Worlds.” Here's Shannon Cason live at The Moth.
Shannon: When I was young, I loved playing fun and games. We would flip quarters at the lunch table in high school in Detroit or pitch them off the wall. Whoever got closest won. When I went to college at Michigan State University, [cheers and applause] we would shoot craps in one of my friend’s dorm rooms. [audience laughter] Be a bunch of us guys, most of us from Detroit, all in that little room talking stuff, smoking, drinking, bringing the hood to Michigan State University. [audience laughter] He had this little portable pool table that was perfect for shooting craps. Guys had to have a style to their dice roll. It was like a signature, guys listening to them, blowing on them, doing a little dance or whatever. Me, I'm always simple and understated. Just click, clack, roll, snap. I loved it. I was a decent student. Loved basketball and hip hop.
Gambling was my little secret. I remember once over summer vacation, I lost all my summer job money going to the Windsor Casino. Because you could go under 21, I'd be 19 years old at the blackjack table with these grandparents. [audience laughter] When my mom asked what happened to all my money that summer, I lied and told her I spent it hanging out with my friends. I felt bad for losing my money and I felt worse for lying to my mama. I'm a mama's boy. Lying to my mom, you know, that's not fun. Then I started gambling all the time. This is especially when Detroit built all those casinos, all these beautiful casinos with bright lights smack dab in the middle of Detroit. Detroit was sure to become a top tourist city of the Midwest. [audience laughter] It was the Vegas of the Midwest. Not quite, huh?
So, I graduated from college and I'm working at a bank. It's one of these grocery store banks in Farmer Jack, I manage it. And as a manager, the dress code was you had to wear a suit and tie. The tellers wore polo shirts. I love wearing the suit and tie. Professional, I'm a professional. By that time, gambling had my checking account overdrawn. I was living with my sister. I was eating ramen noodles on a regular basis. When I didn't have money, I had to comp. So, I have more comps than cash, I eat at the casino. At work, we had 20,000 in 20s in the vault to refill the ATM. And we kept 30,000 in 100s for the customer's checks on Friday. It was Tuesday and I started thinking we never did the tellers.
We weren't a busy branch. The tellers didn't have to buy money from the bank all the time-- I mean the vault all the time. And we didn't do the dual vault control because everybody just trusted everybody. And it was Tuesday and a thought just dropped into my head. I could take a little money, borrow it so I can play a little bit. Tired of eating noodles, I could just borrow a little, hit a lick, went a little, put it back the next day. It was just a harmless thought. I took the whole $50,000. [audience laughter] $50,000 won't fit in your pants pocket. [audience laughter] I know. I tried it. So, I got 10,000 here, 10,000 here. I even got a sexy bulge in my underwear. I tell the tellers I'm going to lunch. I go to the Motor City Casino.
It's a short drive from where I work. I used to go there for lunch all the time. When I didn't have money. I had comps for the buffet. But this time, I have money. A lot of it. $50,000 stuffed in every pocket, even in my underwear. I sit down at the blackjack table. I buy in for 10000 in 20s. It takes them a little time to count 10,000 in 20s. It brings a small crowd, which I don't care for. I like to be invisible, understated. And then the people who gather around you to watch, they just lost their money. That's why they got time to sit there and watch you play. They don't want to see me win. They just want to see somebody stupider than them. [audience laughter] But I'm winning. Double 21, splitting aces. Blackjack, Blackjack. I'm winning.
The plan is, if you win, leave. But you feel invincible with $10,000 in your underwear. [audience laughter] So, I start getting cocky and losing and losing. And then the 10,000 is gone. The crowd, they act sad, but they feel better about themselves. They just want to see a train wreck. I pull out another 10,000. I'm chasing. I burn through that 10,000 fast. I get up from the table, and the crowd is acting sad. And I'm thinking, I got to get away from these losers. Losing is contagious. I'm going to go up to the high roller room on the top floor. I'm feeling bad, but my pocket's still 30,000 heavy. I just got to ta rush this off, change my game up, change my strategy. Banker or sit the whole 30 on the table. Takes him a while to count that much. Brings out some guys who have to wear suits like me.
I do good. I'm doing good. I want close to the 50,000 back. Then I get a call from work. I let it go to voicemail. It wasn't till I got that call that I realized what I had done. I just took $50,000 from my job to go to the casino at lunchtime. I was just caught up in the moment. This wasn't real, but it was real. That call meant I could be in some serious trouble. I just want to get this money back. I'm in a hurry. I'm thinking I put the biggest bet I had played up. I don't know why so much, 20 grand. I just want to get out of here. If I win this bet, I can get out of here. The dealer deals the cards. I'm back down to 30. Then the 20. Then the 10.
I notice there's this old man staring at me from one of the other tables, shaking his head. I just remember that old dude shaking his head at me. I get up with a few chips, and I know I can't win $50,000 back with these two orange chips in my hand. I walk out through the lights, the sounds, the people, the smoke, and out the door to fresher air. I listened to the voicemail. Ain't want nothing. It's one of the tellers wanted me to bring her back some. I don't go back to work. I mean, why? I just drive around Detroit until it's late. Drive down Woodward, down through Cass Corridor. There's this school that's being torn down. Kind of how I felt torn down. Being real with you is like this.
In Detroit, like a lot of my childhood friends serve time, serving time or worse. But that was never for me. I went to college. I wear a suit every day to work. I'm a professional. Yeah, I like to gamble but it's just for fun. This wasn't supposed to happen. Eventually, I called my job, and I remember they know by now that the money is missing. I remember I'm talking to the regional president, and he says something surprising. He says, “Shannon, don't do anything stupid. It's only money. It's not the end of the world.” You don't know how much I appreciate that guy for saying that. I don't even remember his name. I called my mom. I called my sister. This girl I was dating. I get a hotel room by the mall with that leftover money I had.
And I invited everybody to come visit me. My mom, my sister, the girl I was dating. And I go to the mall and I get some ruby jewelry, like a necklace for my mom. Kay Jewelers had a sale on rubies. This was in July. [audience laughter] I'm thinking I'm going to be gone for a long time. This is something for her to remember me by. When they show up, I sit everybody down and I do this little intervention on myself. [audience laughter] And give my mom the ruby necklace and tell her what happened. And she doesn't accept the ruby necklace, of course. My mom says that I should be ashamed of myself and that I was raised better than that. And you don't know how much dad heard my mom telling me something like that which is true.
It could have went a lot worse than what it did. One day in jail, five years’ probation, the bank didn't want to destroy me. That regional manager might have had a part in that. My family supported me. I got married. It's been hard, but I paid it back. I wish I could say the threat of jail, pain my mother felt, the normalcy of a wife and a baby changed me, and everything became happy. Wish I could say that, but this is life, and it's not all fun and games. Started going to the meetings, and the lady at the meeting said, addiction is insidious. I'm being real with you. I had to look it up. [audience laughter] I looked it up. Yeah. Insidious. That's a good word.
[cheers and applause]
[music playing]
Meg: [00:15:18] Shannon Cason is a writer and storyteller and is currently living in Chicago. He's been banned from the financial industry for life, but he says he never enjoyed banking much anyway. Maggie Cino, the director who worked with Shannon on his story, recently sat down with him to talk more about his experience.
Shannon: [00:15:41] It was a big decision for me because that story, some of my family members don't know that story because it just puts me in a bad light. But you know me, I think storytelling is real more than anything. If you can't touch the vulnerable places that you can feel the strength to go there. I mean, it's been empowering for me to tell that story, and I've told that story, and I've had people come afterwards and say, their son has dealt with some problem or their husband have dealt with some problem or grandmother. So, the thing is, I mean, taking the hit, you know what I'm saying? I tell the nasty parts and the ugly parts sometimes.
I love hearing those stories, too, because everything isn't pretty and glossy and some of it is, man you don't want to even look up under it and look at it, you know? But when you can get to the point where you can I mean, it's been years past since that is when you can get to the point to share it, I mean, it's a powerful experience for me and I think it can be a good experience for a person listening too.
Maggie: [00:17:02] Yeah, I mean, I think one of the things that's so amazing about this story actually is you tell it in such an honest way that it's interesting to hear you saying, like, “Hey I look like a bad guy and all that stuff, because, I mean, it's definitely something really intense that happened and Intense that you did but you also open yourself up in a way that I think everybody can understand and identify with.
Shannon: [00:17:35] I had an interview in, where was I at? in Philadelphia. Great job too. I was just getting in a relationship, just had a new baby. I'm like, “Okay, I need this job.” And got all the way through the end. They hired me and everything. You don't tell a person, hey, I embezzled a bunch of money from my last job, you know, so I didn't really bring that up, but I thought they had already checked and they kind of went through and all the way to the end. We just found something on the – [laughter]
I'm like, “Man, it would get to this part, but it's probably best. That's why telling this story.” If anybody-- it's out. So, I don't have to try to hide it anymore, just like, let my story be my story and if opportunities come for me, you know who you got. I made mistakes in my life and you didn't.
[music playing]
Meg: [00:18:34] You can find more of Maggie's interview and a link to Shannon's podcast called Shannon Cason's Homemade Stories at our website, themoth.org. In a moment, we'll hear how a family tragedy turned into a surreal confrontation with law enforcement.
Jay: [00:18:51] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, prx.org.
Meg: [00:20:16] [crowd murmuring] From PRX this is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Meg Bowles. Before we play this next story from Prinna Boudreau, I just wanted to give you a warning that it's a difficult one. It deals with a family's loss of a child and may not be suitable for everyone. We first heard about Prinna when she called our pitch line. We were all so moved by her honesty and courage that we invited her to [cheers and applause] share the story on our Mainstage in New York. Here's Prinna Boudreau live at The Moth.
Prinna: [00:20:48] Several months ago, I met with a mother who had just lost her baby boy. I had heard about her through a mutual friend. She had asked if I would sit down with her and give her some hope that there was life after a tragedy like this. I felt this huge weight on my shoulders. I didn't know if I was a success story, if I had made it through the storm and come out on the other side okay. I wasn't sure I was really ready to help someone else yet. My story started with a phone call from my husband, Chris. He was in the emergency room with our 10-month-old daughter, Sophia. I kept asking if she was okay and he kept saying she was, but that I needed to get there quickly.
He kept saying she was okay, but something deep down inside of me told me my daughter was already gone. I ran in through the emergency room doors and I was screaming for Sophia like a mad woman. And it was like they were waiting for me. The nurses, the patients in the waiting room, they were just sitting there staring at me like they knew something that I didn't know. They led me into this small room and Chris was sitting in there. A doctor came in, he knelt down in front of us and he said, “I'm sorry to tell you, but your baby is dead. I'm so sorry.” And then he got up and left. And I remember thinking it was such a strange way for him to say it that he didn't find a nicer way of saying it.
I looked at his face and there was no emotion, no sadness, nothing. But I guess they know that after that first sentence, nothing else matters and nothing else will be remembered. So just give the news and leave. I think in that moment I left myself. I felt all my hopes and my dreams for my daughter, just slowly float away. Like, I had released a balloon and had to stand there staring at it with no chance of ever getting it back. The nurse asked if I wanted to hold Sophia and I said no right away. But then, almost as quickly, I demanded to see her, to hold her. It was like some rational part of me was rearing its head, telling me I would forever regret it if I didn't hold her.
They sat me in an old brown rocking chair. Chris stood next to me and my mom, who appeared just out of nowhere. She grabbed me by the shoulders, she looked into my eyes and she said, “This is the worst thing that will ever happen to you, Prinna. It doesn't get any worse than this.” And I'll never forget those words. And then Sophia was in my arms. She was swaddled too tightly in too many blankets and she felt much too heavy. But her face looked just the same, like she was taking a nap. My mom tells me I told her I loved her, that she would always be my baby. That I was sorry we would never get to see her curly hair grow.
I don't remember when they took her from me, but after I sat there for God knows how long with empty arms, I remember thinking, what are we still doing here? Why are we still here? She was gone. So, what were we waiting for? And then suddenly and urgently I wanted to leave because it occurred to me, they were going to take me away. Surely, they had to think this was my fault. And I was right. Because just minutes after finding out that Sophia had died, I was questioned by a female police investigator. They led me into this other room and I noticed a tape recorder sitting in the center of the table and I was immediately very scared. She asked me questions about my pregnancy and I thought, “Did I do something during my pregnancy to cause my 10-month-old baby to die?”
She asked me about my day and I told her that I had been at work, that Sophia had been with our regular babysitter. She asked me about foods and medications, just a whole bunch of questions, some that I couldn't answer. And then she let me go. And somehow, we made it back from the emergency room to our house. And I remember sitting in the car, watching Chris move from window to window in the house. He was gathering some things for us, since apparently, we couldn't stay there. And I watched the police officers wander alongside him. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was a sign of things to come for me and Chris. I would sit there practically catatonic, and he would rush around making everything okay. But because I trusted him implicitly, I let him.
And then Chris appeared at the car door. He was holding our two-year-old daughter, Annabelle. She was wearing her Dora the Explorer pajamas and she was clutching her green blanket. He hoisted her into the car and buckled her in. And I remember I didn't have anything for her. I didn't talk to her. I didn't comfort her. She didn't ask where we had been or where were going so late. But I remember her asking why Sophia's car seat was gone. It was about a week after the funeral, when I was sitting on the computer with my brother, the phone rang. It was the female police investigator who had questioned me in the hospital. She said they had some more results from the autopsy and could Chris and I come in separately to answer some questions tomorrow.
And those words just stung, “Questions separately tomorrow.” I tried to sound calm and I said of course we would come in. But then I hung up the phone. It was like all hell broke loose. I ran around the house screaming that they were going to arrest me. I remember my legs just gave out and I fell onto my brother, begging him to tell me I was a good mother. Begging him to tell me I wasn't going to jail. My brother said that it couldn't wait until the next day, that we needed to take care of it that afternoon.
So, somehow arrangements were made and I wound up at the police station with Chris that afternoon. They let us into this interrogation room. And something about it told me to run. Run like hell and never come back. Something was just very, very wrong. But Chris and I stayed in that room. We stayed because we had nothing to hide. The female police investigator came in and she said that they had received some more information about the autopsy. That a bruise had been discovered at the base of Sophia's neck. They weren't saying for sure that this was the cause of her death, but they were leaning towards it, maybe that they would know more when the official autopsy reports came back. She could not have said anything to shock us more.
She said that they knew there had to have been an accident. And she just kept asking us over and over what had happened. I thought back to the week before when Chris had taken a phone call from the hospital. And I turned to him and I said, “You said it was natural causes. You said they said it was natural causes.” The police investigator interrupted and said, “No, it was never said that it was natural causes. That was never said.” “But Chris, you said it was natural causes,” and my mom said, “What's natural about a 10-month-old baby dying?” The room went totally quiet. I had lost my ability to speak. All I could do was shake violently.
I can't describe the type of fear that something like this puts into you. It makes you question everything you've ever known to be true. In the days that followed, I questioned everything. I questioned myself, my babysitter, my husband. I remember lying in bed with Chris one night and I turned to him and I said, “Did you give her a bath and something happened.” He just said “No.” And then I heard him softly crying into his pillow.
[sobbing voice] And I didn't care that he was crying. I didn't care because I just wanted to know what had happened to my baby. It was a couple weeks later-- it felt like a couple months, but it was a couple weeks and Chris appeared home in the middle of the afternoon from work unexpectedly. I could tell from the look on his face that the official autopsy reports were back. We were supposed to make an hour-long drive to the police station to get the results. But about five minutes into the drive, I couldn't take it anymore. I told him to pull over, that I wanted to call and get the results.
So, there were, standing in the tall grass, huddled over a cell phone on the side of the highway. We learned that Sophia had died of SIDS. This wave of relief washed over me. That sounds so cliche, I know, but I could literally feel myself, my mind, my body, my spirit change. It was like everything was right again. I'd been wrong to ever question my babysitter, myself, my husband, but I also felt disappointment. Disappointment that I'd been allowed to get worked into such a state that I couldn't be there for Chris when he needed me the most. Chris and I would later meet with Sophia's pediatrician. He would tell us that there was no medical evidence to support what the police had told us. There was no bruise on the base of her neck. There had been no accident. The police had been bluffing. And he was furious that they had been allowed to do what they did to us. They added to the trauma of an already very traumatic situation.
But I'm struck with how far I've come in the past five years. I've had two more babies, Eve and Alec. I'm back to work, I'm writing, I'm being productive and I'm having truly happy moments every single day. Chris and I are beating the odds, we're still together. So, maybe you can say that I'm a success story. I sat across from this mother who had just lost her baby boy. And it was like I was standing on the ocean shore staring out at this woman drowning. And I wanted to throw her a rope and pull her back in, stop the current from taking her away. But then I realize I'm not on the ocean shore, but that I too am in the ocean, just treading water. But maybe now I was strong enough to help her. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Meg: [00:34:18] Prinna Boudreau is a writer and an adjunct English professor at Minnesota State University. After the show, we asked Prinna what it was like telling such a difficult story in front of a live audience.
Prinna: [00:34:29] [crowd noise] You know, after I tell my story, I'm usually confronted with some people who are in the audience who it really struck a nerve with, and usually they're very grateful to me for telling the story and making it known what we went through. And it's incredibly healing for me and peaceful to know that I'm in my small way helping somebody else who might go through this.
[piano music playing]
Meg: [00:35:01] Prinna Boudreau and her husband Chris, continue to be strong advocates for Faith’s Lodge, a healing retreat in Wisconsin that serves families who have lost a child. You can visit our website themoth.org to find a link to Prinna's blog and learn more. As I mentioned, we first heard Prinna's story when she called our pitch line. If you have a story, you'd like us to hear, go to our website, click on Tell a Story and it'll take you on a step by step how to, so you can leave us a two-minute version of a story you'd like to share.
When we come back, we'll hear a story of one scientist struggle to find proof of God's existence.
Jay: [00:35:46] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, prx.org.
Meg: [00:37:12] This is The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Meg Bowles. Our last story is from Christof Koch. Christof is a neuroscientist and the chief scientific officer for the Allen Institute for Brain Science in Seattle. He told this story at our annual collaboration with the World Science Festival. [cheers and applause] Here's Christof Koch live at The Moth.
Christof: [00:37:42] It was in the late 1990s and I was course director at the Marine Biological Lab in Woods Hole in Cape Cod, directing a class on how computers can be used to learn about the brain and we're celebrating with a boisterous evening with a big dinner party and a live rock and roll band. And I freely indulged in dancing and drinking. But then I grew restless. I'd read the previous couple of days a book by the German philosopher, Fried Nietzsche. [audience chuckle] It's not funny. [audience laughter] About how modernity had killed God and how we all God's grave diggers and about divine putrefaction. [audience chuckle] And this had reawakened this long simmering conflict I've had between my religious upbringing and my profession as a scientist.
So, I wandered off. I left the party and I wandered off through the forest to the beach in Cape Cod. And when I arrived at the beach there was a crescent moon which was partly obscured by the clouds that were being chased across the sky by the wind which it's picked up to storm. And the storm had also driven the whites of the waves towards the land. And it was this desolate empty beach, just a couple of boulders in the background, there were the trees that were swaying, very menacing. And I was quite excited, I went through this extensionless crisis and I shouted out to the sky “Gott wo bis du?” See, God speaks German of course. [audience laughter]
I was shouting for God to reveal himself here. I was trying for many years to desperately believe in him, but I never had a sign of his existence. So, I was debating with him. Well, it was a very one-sided debate. There was a problem. [audience laughter] I was debating with him that to show himself. I needed a booming voice from the sky. I wanted a burning bush, I wanted some sign. And I increased, because I drank a lot, I was very bellicose and was very insistent. [audience laughter] And then suddenly the earth erupted in front of me and there was this bright light that dazzled me. And this very angry form metamorphosed just right in front of me, just materialized. And it was shrieking and yelling, “Get the fuck off this beach.” [audience laughter]
So, God had metamorphosed from-- into an angry camper. Was trying to sleep there and I'd awaken him and I hadn't noticed him before. [audience laughter] So, I grew up happy, raised by my parents in the best liberal Catholic tradition where by large science, including evolution by natural selection was accepted as explaining the facts of the world. I was an altar boy, I learned to say the prayers in Latin and I really loved the masses and the Passion and the Requiems of Orlando di Lassos and Verdi and Bach. As a teenager my dad gave me a 5-inch reflected telescope and it's still a very viscerally remember the night when I on the top of my house I calculated actually where the planet Uranus should be in the sky. And I pointed the telescope at the azimuth in the elevation and right there it appeared.
And I remember this incredible feeling of elation I felt. This ordered universe that I found myself in where I can actually compute these things like this blue planet that gently drifted into view. But then over the years I began to reject a lot of the things that the Catholic church told me. See, on the one hand, there were the things my parents and my Jesuit teacher told me. On the other hand, I learned to listen to the beat of a very different drama in lectures and books and in the lab. So, I had this explanation for things in the world for the Sunday and then I had another explanation for the rest of the week. There was a sacred explanation and there was this profane explanation. And on the one hand I was told-- my life was given meaning by putting in the context of this large scale. There's this large creation of God and I'm just a puny part of it. On the other hand, science actually explained actual facts about the real universe I found myself in.
And so for many decades I had this profound split of reality. And then I met Francis Crick. So, Francis, I first encountered Francis under an apple tree doing what he loved best, which was talking and discussing about biology. Francis Crick was the physical chemist who discovered the double helical structure of the molecule of heredity DNA discovery for which he was given The Nobel Prize. It was really to him and his guiding intellect that the field of molecular biology looked in their giddy and exuberant race to discover the universal code of life. And when that goal was achieved in the late 60s, he shifted his interest from molecular biology to trying to understand how consciousness arises out of the physical brain.
And that's when I encountered him and we grew quite fond and close to each other. We worked together for close to two decades. We brought two dozen papers and we published several books and he dedicated his last book to me. Francis also epitomizes the historical animosity between religion and science. And this really grew legendary in 1961 when Francis resigned very publicly, you can read about it, from Churchill College in Cambridge, England. At the occasion of the Churchill College constructing a chapel on college ground, Francis felt that a new college dedicated to science and mathematics and engineering, there was no place for superstition.
Winston Churchill, in whose name the college had been founded after the war, tried to appease Francis and wrote him a letter pointing out that the financial means for the construction of the chapel would be raised entirely by private means that would be open to people of any faith and that nobody would be forced to attend. Francis replied by return post proposing the construction of a brothel. [audience laughter] A bordel. The construction of the bordel would be financed entirely by private means. It would be open to all men, no matter what their religious conviction, and no man would be forced to attend. [audience laughter] And he actually included a check for down payment. So, this ended the correspondence between the two great men.
By the time, I knew Francis, his animosity vis-à-vis religion had become muted. And although he knew I was raised Catholic in a sporadically attended mass, he never probed. I think finally, he was a kind man and he wanted to spare me the embarrassment for groping for an explanation. In particular, as my belief obviously didn't interfere with our quest to understand how the conscious mind arises out of the brain within an entire natural framework. And for emotional reasons, I wasn't ready to give up my faith. I was also afraid-- I was simply afraid that his searing intellect couldn't be matched by anything. I could explain why I believed things.
Many years in our collaboration, when I visited him in San Diego, where he lived, he told me in a very matter of fact tone that his colon cancer, he had a previous bout with colon cancer, probably had returned, and that he was expecting a call from his oncologist later on that day, discussing the results of some tests they had run the previous days. I was actually with him in the study, that's how we worked in the study at home. When the call came confirming that the cancer had returned with a vengeance. And he stared off for a minute or two into space after he put down the phone, and then he returned to our conversation about brains.
At lunch, he discussed his diagnosis with his wife, talking about what needs to be done to accommodate him. But for the rest of the day, we worked. That was it. There was no doom and gloom. There was no gnashing of teeth. There was no tears. It impressed me immensely. This stoic-- I mean this living embodiment of this stoic-- of his ancient stoic face, accept what you can change. A couple of months later, when again I visited him, we went, as usually, through his large correspondence pertaining to consciousness and there was a letter from a famous British philosopher confessing to Francis-- it was a personal letter confessing to Francis. He said the philosopher's abject fear when faced with idea of his own mortality. He wrote, “I feel like animal, cornered, absolutely terrified, panicky, unable to think clearly when contemplating my own demise.”
And then I finally brought up the strength to ask him, about that letter, “Francis, how do you feel about your diagnosis?” Studiously avoiding any mentioning of the word death. And again, he was very much down to earth. He said something like, everything that has a beginning must have an end. Those are the facts. I don't like them, but I've accepted them. And I will not take any heroic measures to prolong my life beyond the inevitable. I am resolved to live my life out with intact mind. And so, he did over the next two years as his cancer weakened his body, but never his spirit. We continued to write. We finished my book, and I was just immensely impressed by how he could deal with this. And I, of course, reflected on my own future demise and whether I would be able to have this calmness, this composure, to meet my own end.
Suffering from the debilitating effect of chemotherapy, I overheard him one day on the phone talking with somebody who was trying to convince him to sign off on the construction of a bobblehead of him. [audience laughter] Because Francis Crick is a very famous figure, they wanted to construct a bobblehead of him. [audience laughter] At some point, I heard him put down the phone. He walked past me, shuffling past me on the way to the bathroom. When he returned several minutes later to resume the conversation, he just dryly remarked to me in passing, well, now I can truly say this idea made me throw up. [audience laughter]
Finally, he called me to say, “Christof the correction to our paper we're working on turned out to be our last paper. We're going to be delayed. I have to go to the hospital for a couple of days. But don't worry.” In the hospital, he continued to dictate corrections to this paper to his assistant. Two days later, he passed away and his wife Odile told me how on his deathbed he had this hallucinatory conversation with me involving neurons and their connection to consciousness. The scientist, literally to his last breath. Given 40 years age difference, we fell into this very natural father-son relationship and we became very close intellectual companions. And he became my hero for the unflinching way he dealt with mortality and aging. With a view towards the inevitable, he gave me a life’s huge portrait of him of Francis sitting in a wicker chair, gazing out at me with a twinkle in his eyes. Signed for Christof Francis keeping an eye on you. [audience laughter]
And so it does today in my office. I've never had another encounter with God, nor do I expect to. For the God I now believe in is much closer to Spinoza's God than the God of Michelangelo's painter or the God of the Old Testament. I'm saddened by the loss of my belief in religion. It's like leaving forever the comfort of your childhood home, suffused with the warm glows and fond memory. But I do believe we all have to grow up. It's difficult for many, it's unbearable to the few. But we have to see the world as it really is. And we have to stop thinking in terms of magic. As Francis would have put it, this is a story for grown men, not a consoling tale for children.
So, here I am, seven years later. I'm a highly organized pattern of mass and energy, one of 7 billion. In any objective accounting of the universe, I'm practically nothing. And soon I'll cease to be. But the certainty of my own demise, the certainty of my own death, somehow makes my life more meaningful and I think that is as it should be. I find myself born into this universe. It's a wonderful place. It's a strange place. It's also a scary and sometimes lonely place. What I try to do every day in my work, I try to discern through its noisy manifestation. I try to discern the people, the dogs, trees, mountains, stars, everything I love. I try to discern the eternal music of the spheres. Thank you very much.
[cheers and applause]
Meg: [00:52:27] That was Christof Koch. [[pleasant melodious music playing] Christof has spent many years researching the neural basis of consciousness and the subjective mind. His most recent book is entitled the Quest for Consciousness: A Neurobiological Approach. You can see pictures of Christof and Francis Crick and the other storytellers featured in this hour by visiting our website themoth.org. While you're there, check out our event section and see if we're hosting a Mainstage or StorySLAM in your area. That's it for this hour. Thanks so much for listening and we hope you'll join us again next time for The Moth Radio Hour.
[Uncanny Valley theme music by The Drift playing]
Jay: [00:53:29] Your host this hour was Meg Bowles. The stories in the show were directed by Meg and Maggie Cino. The rest of The Moth directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Jenness and Jenifer Hixson. With production support from Jenna Weiss-Berman and Brandon Echter. Special thanks to Tracy Day and Brian Greene at the World Science Festival.
Moth stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Moth events are recorded by Argot Studios in New York City, supervised by Paul Ruest. Our theme music is by the Drift. Other music in this hour from The Whitest Boy Alive, Lawless Music and Mike Oldfield. The Moth is produced for radio by me, Jay Allison at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts with help from Viki Merrick.
This hour was produced with funds from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the John D And Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, committed to building a more just, verdant, and peaceful world.
The Moth Radio Hour is presented by the public radio exchange, prx.org. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching your own story and everything else, go to our website themoth.org.
Dan: [00:54:48] [crowd murmuring] Hope you enjoyed listening to The Moth Radio Hour. Thanks to Jay Allison, Jenna Weiss-Berman and thanks most of all to you guys for listening. Hey, A note for our listeners in the Bay Area. The San Francisco Moth GrandSLAM Championship is going to be on Tuesday, September 2nd at The Castro Theater. For more information, visit themoth.org.
Female Speaker: [00:55:09] Our podcast host, Dan Kennedy is a writer and performer living in New York and author of the new novel American Spirit, available now.
Dan: [00:55:19] Thanks to all of you for listening and we hope you have a story worthy week. [applause] Podcast audio production by Paul Ruest at the Argot Studios in New York. The Moth Podcast and The Radio Hour are presented by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more public at prx.org.