John, Day 78: The Question of the Day.
“Well, hey there, John. Getting an early start? It’s only 1:30.”
I reach across the darkness and had the parking attendant a five-dollar bill. “That should hold me for the rest of the morning.” His name is Eric and we’ve become friends over the past few weeks. He cheerfully works the night shift at the hospital parking garage, a gargantuan structure that looms over the original hospital building from the 60s.
“So what’s the question of the day, John?”
I put the SUV into “Park” and kill the engine. There’s no one else who’ll need the garage at this time of the morning. Eric steps out of the attendant’s booth, lights an illicit cigarette and waits for my answer.
“I keep telling you, those things are gonna kill you.”
Eric breaks into his predictable smile. “Four a day. No more, no less. I keep telling you, I’ve got it handled.”
“Well, stand downwind from me.”
Eric exhales a plume of blue smoke that’s highlighted by the towering halogen lights that arch over the parking lot. “You got it, chief. Now. What’s the question of the day?”
“Death.”
Eric turns pensive. “Ok. Not exactly like our other topics, but ok. What do you want to know?”
I laugh. His question strikes me as funny. A parking lot attendant at a major medical center is now an expert on death. I’m intrigued.
“Why you laughing? Did you know that black men like me under the age of 30 have a greater chance of being killed by a gun than being struck by lightning? My time could be just around the corner.” Eric turns away and takes another drag, adding quietly, “I know a thing or two about death.”
“Sorry, Eric. I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s just that we usually talk about upcoming weather, new funding for the medical center, the Giants’ chances for a pennant. I just sort of dumped death on you. Sorry.”
“No worries, chief.”
“My husband is in there. Dying a little bit more every day.”
“Drew, right?”
“Yes. Drew.” I pause and watch the moths gathering around the arc light above us. “ It’s been 78 days, today.”
“You know, I see people coming and going all day. You get to know the faces.”
“Know them? How?”
“After a while, I can tell the ones where death is beatin’ them down. Killing hope. Winning.” Eric leans against my front fender. “Know what I mean?”
I’ve seen those faces on the seventh floor. I nod.
“Death is a mean son-of-a-bitch, isn’t she?”
“She?” I laugh. “I’ve always pictured death as a mean old man.”
“Nope.” Eric is resolute. “It’s a she. Only a woman could be so clever.”
“You think death is clever?”
Eric tosses his cigarette and walks closer to my window.
“Think about it. All these people come visiting sick people here. Like you. Coming for days. Months. They get all sorts of reports from the doctors. They tell me. Like, ‘He’s getting’ better, you just have to hang in there.’ Or, ‘We’ve done everything we can. Now it’s in God’s hands.’ I always wondered: how do they know that? I mean, how do they know who’s in God’s hands? What about when God says, ‘Oh hell, no. This one’s not comin’ anywhere near heaven. Throw that SOB back to where he came.’ Seriously. God’s hands? Right.”
I’m laughing. Eric has that effect on me. It’s one of the perks of late-night visits.
Drew, Day 78: There’s Been Talk.
It’s her Jamaican drawl. She’s fussing with the machines. I wonder if it’s day or night. That’s how time is parsed out--in days and nights. Not that time matters much in here.
“Now, Mr. Drew, it’s me Wendy. I know, I know. I’m usually here in the mornings, but I’m filling in for Linda.”
Wendy is fussing with my tubing. Is Drew here yet? Doesn’t he come by at night time?
“You might remember Linda. She’s pregnant—very—and she’s taking time off waiting for her baby girl to arrive. ‘Tiffany.’ Now personally, I don’t care so much for that name. Makes the child sound like a piece of jewelry. Or a fashion model from one of those Romanian countries. Not, mind you , that there’s anything wrong with anyone from another country. I support all immigrants. I mean, look at me. But, ‘Tiffany.’ I’m just sayin’.”
So it is night time.
“It’s time for our meds. Something to relieve any pain. Plus a few extras to help with your bowel movements, fight off infections. Things like that.”
I wonder why all of the nurses say ‘our’ meds? Are they secretly downing a matching bunch of pills as they administer mine? Do they take my meds, too, in some sort of sympathetic solidarity? ‘Our” meds? Not that I really care. They’re so nice to me. And they keep John company. God knows I can’t.
“Now, Mr. John will be here any minute. Let’s see. It’s 1:45. Yep. He’s usually here by two. Like clockwork. Let me fix that pillow for you.”
My pillow is just fine, comfortable actually. But I can’t tell her that. Besides, I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings. I know she’s just trying to help. She moves it around until she’s satisfied.
I can feel her closer to me. Her voice is a little louder and it’s her warmth. Maybe it’s her breath or just body heat. But I’m sure she has moved closer.
“I wanted to tell you something. That’s if you can hear me, and if you can’t then it won’t matter. Not that I should be telling you this, but I like you and Mr. John. He loves you so much and wants you to get better so he can have you back.”
I know. It is sweet. I want him back, too.
“But there’s been talk. It’s bound to happen when you’ve set your wishes down on paper like you have.”
My “wishes?” Sorry, Wendy, but you’re losing me.
Your paper says you don’t want all these machines. That you want us to let you go. But I can tell you, for sure, Mr. John is having none of that. No, sir. And Dr. C is on your side, too. And me, of course.”
Ah, that paper.
“And you’ve been doing an excellent job, too. You’re in there cookin’ up all these great brain waves that tells everybody, ‘Hey, I’m still in here. Not time yet.’ And that’s good. Makes for a good sign.”
But you say there’s ‘talk?’
“But.” I feel her breath against my ear. “We’ve passed the 30-day mark and the 50-day mark and we’re comin’ up on the 80-day mark, and I have to tell you, Drew: that paper you signed isn’t going away. Dr. C can only stall them so long. Now, I don’t want this to upset you. But, if you could just throw the doctors a bone. Move a finger or a leg. Open an eye—both would be great.”
Stall who?
I hear a great sigh. It’s ok, Wendy. It’s all going to be fine. I just need to sleep a little. You know how the pain meds are. Can’t fight the feeling. Wasn’t that a song?
“Of course, I could have all this wrong. And I want you to know I respect it if you’re thinking about leaving us. That’s something between you and the man upstairs.” Wendy chuckles. “Did you ever wonder if the person upstairs could be a woman? I think about that a lot, especially when I’m up here on the seventh floor where people are coming and going like crazy. Why couldn’t it be ‘the woman upstairs?’ Now wouldn’t that be something?”
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