The Family Moved Into the Dying Room

The family moved into the dying

room and sat at the round table

about six feet removed from

the foot of the bed

 

upon which quietly lay the

ninety-three-year-old man in

a morphine induced, pre-death

slumber while blood

 

from a bursting aortic aneurism

filled his normally flat abdomen

giving him what looked

like a growing beer

 

belly. The sisters sat with the

officious social worker

filling out forms.  The sisters

were glad to have

 

something to do because the

E.R. personnel had told them

to prepare for a long stay

or as the physician

 

had said, “We thought he’d

go really fast but the old guy

has staying power.”  The word

that came to mind for

 

the family was “stubborn.” They

nodded and with that in mind

the two brothers-in-law settled

into the couch for

 

a long summer’s nap, the couch

being even farther away from

the death-bed in a room

that felt cavernous. Before

 

snoozing, one said, “Given his

will power (a s-i-l euphemism),

this could take at least a week.”

Then, through the

 

power of prayer, telepathy or

just plain cussedness, the old

guy summoned the death

floor nurse to get her rear

 

in gear and get in the room

quicker than pronto to

check his vitals, because,

contrary to the

 

speculations of the E.R.

people and the brothers-in-law,

he once again fooled them

in understanding what

 

he wanted even though he

had been telling them

for the previous four

years what he

 

wanted, really wanted, and

what he wanted and was

determined to get was

to get his way and

 

get out that day and forever

and that if the family at

the table and slumbering

on the couch wanted

 

to say goodbye they needed to

be summoned by the summoned

nurse and get to the bedside

to listen to dad’s

 

last, best, earthly, sigh goodbye

and then he would joyfully

and authoritatively on his terms

give up the ghost.