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.
bobdahl 