Doctors

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On messy mortality.

Published April 21, 2014 by mandileighbean

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #14: An elderly couple disagrees about what to do with their sick house cat.

dyingcat

Frank’s oxygen machine was hissing quietly in the background, as it always did, amidst his pitiful gasps for air. Edith knew his health was rapidly deteriorating and that soon she would be alone in the house, shuffling in worn slippers from room to room as she swept and wept and waited for death. It would be horrible to lose Frank after more than fifty years of marriage, and Edith was beginning to accept that she wouldn’t be able to survive the trauma, but all that knowledge was damn depressing, so she shoved it down, ignored it as best she could. She was only even thinking about the inevitable end now because Stinky was dying and he was doing so in the middle of the kitchen. The damn cat didn’t even have the decency to hide his decay away under a bed or a dark corner of a closet. He was lying on the linoleum, on his side, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. She could easily observe his side rise and fall, rise and fall. His eyes seemed glazed over and when she called his name, or even made any kind of noise, he did not turn his head. Edith released a deep breath and bent to cradle the poor, pitiful animal in her arms. She lifted Stinky and carried him into the living room, where she laid him on the floor beside the couch where Frank lay.
Edith looked at her husband who, in all actuality, looked just as pitiful at Stinky did. Frank did not look at Edith or really acknowledge her presence at all. She cleared her throat. “I think Stinky’s dying, Frank.”
Frank grunted. “Best to make sure he’s comfortable and let him be about his business then.”
Edith paled. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
Frank fully opened his eyes and surveyed his wife. In the time they had been married, just about half of a century, she had only surprised him maybe once or twice, and that was it. He prided himself on knowing her so completely, from her most shameful secrets to her wildest desires. If she took an extra breath, Frank knew it and even anticipated it sometimes. So the shock, outrage, and grief saturating her tone did a number on Frank. He had not been expecting such emotion – could never have anticipated it because Edith didn’t even like Stinky. As a matter of fact, as best as Frank could recall, Edith had hated the cat. She had only allowed Frank to cross the threshold into their home with the feline because he had bribed her with jewelry, sweet nothings, and wine … mostly wine. Edith never pet Stinky, and she’d always forget to feed him. The cat was constant fodder for her complaint, and come to think of it, today was the first day Frank could remember Edith ever using the animal’s name. Why would she express sentimentality over a creature she loathed? Hell, she sounded more upset than Frank did and it was his cat. He struggled to take a breath and wheezed, “What else can we do?”
Edith’s bottom lip quivered and ideas did not come easily, nor did the means to express them. She simply trembled for a few moments before she exploded. “We could take him to the vet, Frank. That’s a no-brainer, isn’t it?”
Edith’s tone was now angry and defensive. Frank’s confusion depended and when he spoke, it was with halting difficulty as it always was, but he spoke even slower and simpler, as if he were explaining geometry to an especially dense toddler. “Stinky’s very old, Edith. It’s his time. All the money, time, and energy spent at the vet’s office might not be enough to save him.”
“But you don’t know for sure and you won’t even try! You’re just giving up on him!”
Frank turned his worn and tired gaze on the poor wretch in question. The cat was dying and he certainly wasn’t taking his time to do it; Frank was fairly certain the cat would be dead within the hour. He looked pitiful and miserable, thin and bare. What would be the sense in moving him, dragging him out into the cold for a car ride, which he hated more than anything else in the world, the vet included? It made no sense and Frank always erred on the side of logic. “He might not make it to the vet, darlin’ –“
“Might; there’s that word again! If nothing’s guaranteed, then why not try?” Edith’s face was red, evidence of her misplaced passion. She had some vague and far away understanding that she wasn’t talking about Stinky, not really. But just who she was referencing eluded her at the moment and some instinct, some sort of sixth sense, told her it was better that way and kept her from tumbling down any rabbit holes.
Frank understood Edith was not going to let this go. His wife, whom he adored and praised and sincerely loved in the best way mere mortals can understand it, would rather he struggle to stand, pack up the damn cat, and hobble to the car, gasping and fighting for every single breath. Frank had emphysema and had been given a six months’ notice three months ago. He was on his way out and in a fit of what could only be sheer lunacy, his wife wanted him to die trying to get their dying cat to the vet’s office. It didn’t make sense and though Frank always erred on the side of logic, he also wanted to keep his missus happy. “Alright, alright,” he said. “Get the carrier.”
Edith should have been satisfied, but she was not. She was still an emotional mess, desperately terrified and overwhelmingly sad, and too afraid to admit and acknowledge why. She watched with her trembling hands over her equally tremulous mouth as Frank gripped the back of the couch and lifted his fragile, fragile body. He stopped breathing as he did so – did not have the energy to move and inflate his lungs – so when he came to a sitting position, after nearly a full minute of slow-motion movement, he paused to inhale deeply and greedily, wheezing. Both Frank and Edith knew he only had a few gasps left, only a handful of lungful inhales before Death would kindly stop for Frank. He let one leg simply drop from the couch, and it crashed against the carpet, as if it were completely useless. Frank winced. The other one would drop in the same fashion and dear God, Edith couldn’t stand it. She released a sob of epic proportions, so loud and shattering that Frank felt his heart momentarily stop. She rushed to Frank, thought better of it, and gently took him into her arms. “I don’t want you to die. I can’t live without you; what would be the point?”
Frank was too stunned, too exhausted, to move. He only allowed himself to be held.
“If you don’t think there’s anything worth fighting to live for, how could I possibly find anything? I know it’s selfish, I know it’s unfair, but it’s just sad, Frank. I’m so sad because I am going to miss you so damn much.”
Frank took a short breath. “I’m going to miss you, too. I love you, Edith. I always have and I always will. Life ends in death; always has and always will. We can’t change it, but we don’t have to dwell on it, either. Just love me, babe, okay? Love me like you always have until the end. It’s all I want.” Frank took his sobbing wife into his arms, and for the first time in many, many years, Frank shed tears of his own.
Somewhere in the background, satisfied the humans would be alright on their own without him, Stinky died.

dyingman

On life … and how titles can be vague.

Published November 25, 2013 by mandileighbean

Life is a fleeting, funny thing- I think we can all agree on that.  Last night, I enjoyed some drinks and some nostalgia with wonderful friends.  As the night ended at a diner, the way nights in Jersey so often do, a waitress who had seated herself at the table beside ours went into some kind of diabetic shock.  My friend Raina is a nurse, and without hesitation, she rushed to the woman’s side and did all she could to keep her alert and comfortable until the paramedics arrived.  I watched her with a serious sense of awe, of how cool, calm, collected, and confident she was.  I was amazed that such a wonderful and beautiful human being could friends with someone like me, who did contributed nothing to the situation other than stunned silence and stares.

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #7: “A woman gets the opportunity of a lifetime when she gets hired to sing backup for a famous musician.”

microphone

Emily was ten years too old – was there really a logical reason for someone to roam this Earth for ninety years?  What could there possibly be left to see or hear or do?  She had laughed until she cried, cried until she had to laugh, been heartbroken, believed herself to be infinite and immortal, believed everything to be meaningless, and then believed everything to be poignantly meaningful.  She had run the gamut from wildly and recklessly passionate to dangerously and stubbornly apathetic.  Had she not lived through some serious shit?  Had she not also merrily sailed through years of calm?  What could possibly be left?  Emily was ready for death.

Ah, but that was horse shit and she knew it.  The thought of going to sleep and never waking up still terrified her in a way that was inexplicable.  It was a sweeping, overwhelming kind of horror that could not be sufficiently articulated.  So, Emily reasoned, if it could not be explained, then what good was there in thinking about it?  Emily looked for something else to occupy her mind and she settled on the weather.  The snow outside was falling steadily and despite feeling hellishly cranky, Emily thought it beautiful to look at.  She watched the weather silently and calmly with her head turned to the side on the large but thin pillow.  She allowed herself to wonder, but only for a moment, how many more snowfalls she’d see, but she shut her eyes against the thought of her inevitable and impending passing.  She prayed for some kind of relief, for some kind of distraction, and in walked the nurse.

The nurse had spent many nights with Emily, perhaps pulling the short straw and getting stuck with the cranky old woman through horrendous hours, hours where the human body was meant to be soundly sleeping.  The nurse was always obnoxiously cheerful and pleasant, which annoyed Emily who only pretended to be crotchety enough to pray for death.  Emily was also annoyed because the nurse was a young man.  Men, in Emily’s learned and wise and venerable opinion, were meant for manual labor and hard work, not for soothing and caring and all that womanly business.  Emily never exchanged more than a few words with the young man, and she only relented and did so because of his eyes.

The young man had absolutely phenomenal eyes.  There were a unique shade of emerald that a human being is blessed to see only once in a lifetime.  They shone brightly, as if chips of a broken Heineken bottle were stuck in the orbs to catch and reflect light.  Emily knew it was a piss poor analogy, and a disturbing rather than beautiful image, but she was dying.  She could do as she pleased.  She gave him a sneer that was slightly less repellent than usual as he came in, and then turned to continue to watch the accumulating powder.  He smiled merrily at her.  “Good evening, Emily.  How are you feeling?”

She grunted.

“Emily, my favorite part of our time together is the scintillating conversations we share.  Honestly, I’ve never been so emotionally and intellectually engrossed before.”  He was being scathingly sarcastic, but he gave her a quick wink to show it was all in fun.  Emily did her best to hide her grin in her hands as she pretended to cough.  The young man had traversed over to the machines that beeped endlessly and flashed all kinds of numbers and statistics that meant nothing to Emily.  She watched him and had the urge to ask him a question.  Despite it being completely out of character, Emily asked, “Did you always want to be a nurse, son?”

The young man was taken aback, clearly not anticipating any kind of conversation other than the usual nods and unintelligible moans and groans.  “What?” he responded, his decorum completely leaving him in favor of shock.

“Men usually aren’t nurses.  What brought you to this line of work?”

He laughed softly.  “You know, you’re right, but no one’s ever actually asked me that before.”  With the grin lingering about his lips, he took a few moments to give the question some serious thought.  Then he said, “I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”

Emily was disappointed.  Writing was not work by any stretch of the imagination.  She had wanted him to say rancher, or laborer, or soldier, something exceedingly masculine and handsome and wonderful she could think about later.  In essence, he had given her nothing to work with, and so she became bored with the conversation and turned her face away, back to the snow.

“What about you, Emily?  What was your dream?”

There was no thinking; her response was instinctual, as effortless as breathing.  “I wanted to be a singer.”

“Really?” the young man was amused by the answer.  “I’ve got to be honest; you don’t strike me as a singer, Emily.”

She turned to him with cold eyes.  “And why not?  What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway?  I could sing as good as any of them!  I could move and put on one hell of a show, I’ll have you know!”

The young man crossed his arms over his chest and gazed upon Emily with real interest.  “So what happened?  Why are you here instead of up on the stage?”

“Because I’m ninety years old and knocking on death’s door.”

He smiled ruefully.  “You know what I mean, Emily.  Why didn’t you ever become a singer?”

She sighed.  “Well, I was making a name for myself at the local dive bars.  I was packing places to capacity, causing fire hazards and whatnot.  A couple of stories ran in the papers and this big shot from Los Angeles came to see me.  He was impressed by what he saw and offered me a shot.  I was to go to Los Angeles and become a backup singer for Frank Sinatra for a gig or two.”

“Frank Sinatra, really?” the young man asked.  She had his full attention now as he sat on the edge of her bed, open-mouthed.

“Oh, sure,” she smiled.  “I didn’t get to meet him or nothin’, because during my audition, I was nervous as hell.  So I downed some whiskey to calm the nerves and pull it together.  I must have overdone it, though, because I moseyed on up there and soon as I opened my pie hole, I vomited all over the mic.”  Emily started chuckling.  “Everyone was so disgusted.  I was escorted out by these burley guys who didn’t even want to touch me.  I didn’t even get a chance to collect my things.”  Her chuckles had turned into hearty guffaws.  She brought her wrinkled hands up to her wrinkled cheeks as her eyes wrinkled with merriment.  She was genuinely laughing, something she hadn’t done since Lord knows how long.  It was an infectious, melodious and beautiful sound and for a fleeting moment, the young man heard how Emily must have sounded when she sang and it was tremendous.  His smile stretched wider and he joined in the laughter.

Elderly woman's hand

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