more than any human I’ve seen, crying about how her boys still needed her even though they were all “growed up,” and how she couldn’t “go and die” before her second grandbaby was born. I sat on the side of her bed with my hands in my lap, overwhelmed but trying to be sympathetic, as she dug her hands into her eyes like lava was pouring out of them.
The next night, she died.
It was three or four in the morning, and I woke up when one of her monitors started to alarm; and then there was a rush of shoes and more alarms, and a nurse took the curtain thatseparated us and quickly threw it shut so I couldn’t watch how they pulled off her hospital gown and exposed her chest, before yelling, “One, two, three, clear!” They barked orders at one another and yelled “Clear!” half a dozen more times, while I sat on the edge of my bed like a little girl, dangling my feet a few inches from the floor and gripping the edge of the mattress, not breathing, and flinching every time they yelled “Clear!” and hearing her body lift as a jolt of electricity rammed into her rib cage.
Everything grew quiet after that. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, listening for her raspy breathing, the way she occasionally sent out an enormous
phuft
of breath like a teakettle about to boil over. But all I heard was my own slow heartbeat, banging so hard it made the plastic liner on my bed crinkle, over and over; and it made my head throb, and everything got so hot, my tears dried up before they had a chance to come out of my eyes and the wax in my ears started melting. I sat there for ten, fifteen, then twenty minutes as a steady stream of people came, shuffled around my roommate’s bed, and exited. I was waiting. Patient. Wondering how I was supposed to live normally, like always, like an everyday person doing everyday things after this.
I had called my housemates the day before, explaining that I’d fainted at the store near a salad spinner and an onion bin. I made a joke about how the hospital gown made me feel more naked than if I really was naked, and that I was certainthe Jell-O cubes were full of wood dust. They told me they were worried, and I’m fairly certain (although I have hardly any memory of it) that I joked around about that too.
Now nothing was funny. I was scared, confused, and angry all at once; so, at any given moment, I wasn’t sure how I would react. If the nurse got busy (it was a hospital, after all), I might respond normally with a little joke or at least a smile when she finally popped her head in the room; or, as it happened, I’d react like a freak show . . . so over-the-top frustrated that I imagined I could just rip the IV needle out of my arm, get dressed, and go home.
I stayed. I ate Jell-O and sipped my decaffeinated coffee, which tasted exactly like warm black water with a splash of something resembling what I remembered as “coffee”—a trick, a concoction that plays with your mind, like maybe real coffee wasn’t as great as you once thought. They seemed to do this with all the food.
I was released with various heart medications and a promise that I would be evaluated in another couple of weeks to see how things were going. John, my housemate, picked me up and we immediately drove to a burger joint, gripping the curbs like an ambulance, so I could order a chocolate milk shake. It was perfect, and John was perfect. The car was perfect, and the way the sun filtered through the clouds and made the seat belt buckles glisten . . . that was perfect.
And when we got home, I realized the house was perfecttoo—even with the front porch steps tilting a little left, and with the drafty windows that we’d sealed up with plastic for the winter making the house look like it was squinting (ogling its way past filmy Coke-bottle glasses). It was inviting and warm, and as I walked in, I took a deep, overly exaggerated breath, the sort of over-the-top gesture that was filmed for commercials
The next night, she died.
It was three or four in the morning, and I woke up when one of her monitors started to alarm; and then there was a rush of shoes and more alarms, and a nurse took the curtain thatseparated us and quickly threw it shut so I couldn’t watch how they pulled off her hospital gown and exposed her chest, before yelling, “One, two, three, clear!” They barked orders at one another and yelled “Clear!” half a dozen more times, while I sat on the edge of my bed like a little girl, dangling my feet a few inches from the floor and gripping the edge of the mattress, not breathing, and flinching every time they yelled “Clear!” and hearing her body lift as a jolt of electricity rammed into her rib cage.
Everything grew quiet after that. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, listening for her raspy breathing, the way she occasionally sent out an enormous
phuft
of breath like a teakettle about to boil over. But all I heard was my own slow heartbeat, banging so hard it made the plastic liner on my bed crinkle, over and over; and it made my head throb, and everything got so hot, my tears dried up before they had a chance to come out of my eyes and the wax in my ears started melting. I sat there for ten, fifteen, then twenty minutes as a steady stream of people came, shuffled around my roommate’s bed, and exited. I was waiting. Patient. Wondering how I was supposed to live normally, like always, like an everyday person doing everyday things after this.
I had called my housemates the day before, explaining that I’d fainted at the store near a salad spinner and an onion bin. I made a joke about how the hospital gown made me feel more naked than if I really was naked, and that I was certainthe Jell-O cubes were full of wood dust. They told me they were worried, and I’m fairly certain (although I have hardly any memory of it) that I joked around about that too.
Now nothing was funny. I was scared, confused, and angry all at once; so, at any given moment, I wasn’t sure how I would react. If the nurse got busy (it was a hospital, after all), I might respond normally with a little joke or at least a smile when she finally popped her head in the room; or, as it happened, I’d react like a freak show . . . so over-the-top frustrated that I imagined I could just rip the IV needle out of my arm, get dressed, and go home.
I stayed. I ate Jell-O and sipped my decaffeinated coffee, which tasted exactly like warm black water with a splash of something resembling what I remembered as “coffee”—a trick, a concoction that plays with your mind, like maybe real coffee wasn’t as great as you once thought. They seemed to do this with all the food.
I was released with various heart medications and a promise that I would be evaluated in another couple of weeks to see how things were going. John, my housemate, picked me up and we immediately drove to a burger joint, gripping the curbs like an ambulance, so I could order a chocolate milk shake. It was perfect, and John was perfect. The car was perfect, and the way the sun filtered through the clouds and made the seat belt buckles glisten . . . that was perfect.
And when we got home, I realized the house was perfecttoo—even with the front porch steps tilting a little left, and with the drafty windows that we’d sealed up with plastic for the winter making the house look like it was squinting (ogling its way past filmy Coke-bottle glasses). It was inviting and warm, and as I walked in, I took a deep, overly exaggerated breath, the sort of over-the-top gesture that was filmed for commercials
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