WARNING: The following account is potentially disturbing.
[He would lay in his death bed for over forty-eight hours, his mouth yawning agape sucking in the precious air again and again. His body temperature would drop low and then suddenly elevate and make him sweat. Parts of his body, such as near his toes would turn blue. His eyes would open slightly and then close. I sat next to him and listened to music and talked to him wondering what was going on in his mind as he slept and trying to suppress my revulsion at modern method of death by forced starvation and dehydration. I had always imagined that to die in this way would simply be like falling into a deep repose after a hard day, but this was not the case.
Julia left a few hours before he died, and that was probably for the best. She had never really loved my father and I think she was only there to satisfy her conscience. Obviously my father trusted her, as he included her in his will and gave her a dominant role in the event that his estate needed to be settled, having said that, he had made it clear that if she was not there or not willing that that would be my responsibility. She’d done back to Montana to return to work.. the practical thing.. I’d stayed in Phoenix at my father’s side to walk him to the boatman and pay his fare: The right thing. I was thinking about staying in the guest room another night as the six post meridian hour approached, and had momentarily left his room to check my email, but had not reached the half way point down the hall when the nurses began walking towards me, “You’d better get back there.” One of them said to me. I turned and sprinted back to the room. There were two of them there, on one side of them. I went to the opposite side of the bed. My father’s breath had finally slowed from its rapid-fire, machinegun, hyperventilation of the past forty eight hours.
The head nurse looked at me, “Stethascope,” she said.
“I don’t have mine,” the other nurse replied not realizing that she had been talking to me.
I didn’t hesitate, however, and put the bell of the stethacope over my father’s heart. Thump, thump, Thump--. And there was no more.
“It’s stopped. I just heard his heart stop.” I said, looking at the head nurse.
There was no pause or change in her blank expression as she withdrew her stopwatch and took note of the time as she started the unit. My father’s lungs continued to strain and breath to give oxygen to bloodcells that were no longer moving throughout his body. After about a minute, his breathing arrested, and she clicked the stop watch and began it again. Two or three minutes then passed and my father’s head moved slightly, and he exhaled very loudly: the death rattle… or his spirit leaving… or I don’t know.. but his face immediately changed, turning an ashen grey in hue and becoming forever still.
“Would you like a moment alone?” Asked the nurse.
I nodded that I would, and she and the other nurse left the room and closed the door.
Three separate feelings or thoughts hit me simultaneously at this point: I would not take a photograph of my father’s body. Maybe his soul HAD been with his body when he died. I was now free from the shackles of his judgment if I failed at life, or rather I felt he gave me a piece of his confidence when he left that I had never felt before, and that I could stop waiting to live up to his highest expectations. I said a private prayer, and then left the room, letting the nurse’s know that I was finished.]
So over a year later, and where is that so-called confidence? Where are all of the promises I made to myself and to my ailing father as he died? I think the only thing I can think he'd like was the fact that I'm engaged to be married, but am not sure he'd like the fact that I quit my job before I had sufficient resources to survive while starting a new business.
Last night as I lay in bed, I wondered if I was murdered in my sleep if I should care. I decided I should not, and went to sleep, just not sure if my brain is capable of getting me out of the mess. Maybe I fucked around too much when I was younger--maybe I'm damaged. Perhaps I'm not as smart as I thought I was.
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| She's not as friendly as she looks... a wolf in sheep's clothing |
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| Brian, helpful a always, works on my car. |
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| A distorted image in my dad in the ICU in Tempe |
