WAITING by Brandon Maxam

 

To me, death comes easy. I lost Vito, one of my best friends, to a car accident I was supposed to be in. Six months later, Ashley, a childhood friend, fell asleep at the wheel on her way to work. When her car crossed the yellow line, she never knew what hit her. Two weeks later, I buried another friend. Suicide. He was Vito’s cousin. Three weeks later I got another call. My friend Bill had died of cancer. I never knew he was sick. I lost all these people when I was 19. They were all younger than 20. It isn’t supposed to happen this way.

            I sit in the waiting room, staring at the television, not paying attention. My mom’s at a small corner table with grandpa playing rummy. They are worried, their faces tired. From my seat, ambulances load and unload patients. I shift to watch. An elderly couple strolls across the street hand in hand, their breath rising above them in a unified cloud. My attention shifts to the newspaper on the stand next to me. The headline reads: “Man Shot in Hunting Accident.” He is in critical condition at Crouse Hospital. His family sits across from me in the waiting room. I get up and pace the floor.

            From the far corner of the waiting room, someone screams. A young mother has lost her husband. There is nothing anyone can do or say that can take away the sense of loss. My hands tremble. My family and I await word from the doctor about Grandma. When she went into the hospital, we knew her operation for a perforated bowel would be serious. We never thought that her bad lungs would mean she would never breathe once she was taken off life support. Less than a week ago, Grandma was healthy, full of life. She was enjoying her birthday. Today, the day before Thanksgiving, she lies motionless, hooked to machines. When the plug is pulled, she will die.

 

            When I graduated from high school, I needed a job. My mom found one for me working in the kitchen of a nursing home. I was surrounded by death. People all around me were either dying or waiting for their turn. At first, I was afraid to become close to the residents. I had never had anyone close to me die. I was afraid of how I would react. It hurt me to go home at night, wondering who wouldn’t be there the next day.

            That was when Ruth came into my life. Ruth was a smartass, a person from my own heart. She had lived at the nursing home for several years, and was seldom visited. She had a way of taking her loneliness out on me.

            “Hey, you. You over there. Yeah, look at me when I’m talking to you.”

            “What’s up, Ruth?” I said.

            “Why do they always have to serve shit for dinner? We have turkey of some kind every day. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were still giving us turkey from Thanksgiving.”

            “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can get you?”

            “Yeah, a big steak, medium-rare, charred over on one side. I want it crispy, but I

still want it to moo when its done.”

            “We don’t have steak, Ruth. Sorry.”

            “Don’t sorry me. What the hell good are you then? Lazy ass. That’s what you are, you’re a good for nothing lazy ass.”

 

            When I first go in to visit Grandma, I’m not sure what to expect. I walk slowly through the wooden doors with ICU written in large, blue letters. At the end of the short hall lined with medical carts and towel racks, I come to a stop sign. Underneath was a note. “Attention all visitors: Please wash your hands with the special sanitary soap located to your right. Thank you.” Unlike a regular hospital floor where everyone has their own room, the ICU is an open area with beds scattered in all directions. There are curtains for privacy. Grandma is near the back of the room. To get to her, I have to walk past several patients in grave condition. There is a black man who had no legs. “Let me die. I can’t stand the pain. Please, God. Why me? Please, take me.” I hurt for this man. There is another man who was heavy-set with a white beard. Santa Claus. Apparently, he had a massive stroke and there is nothing doctors can do to save him. It’s a matter of time. There is also the young man whose parents sit across from us in the waiting room. His hunting accident leaves his chest wrapped in protective gauze, and he constantly sleeps as a result of the high doses of pain medication. His status is uncertain.

            Then, I saw grandma.

            The ventilator that supported her breathing made woosh, wooshing noises each time air was pumped into her body. The sound of the machine resembled a grandfather

clock, with the time left in her life slowly ticking away. There were tubes and pipes running all over her body, monitoring her heart rate, air intake, pulse, oxygen rate, and any other statistic that can be measured. My legs grew rubbery. My stomach cramped. My hands began to tremble. I tried to look away, but it was the same sight everywhere. People were suffering. People were dying. I walked back to the waiting room and cried.

 

 

            It was Ruth that helped me to understand death. She taught me that death was a good thing; it prevented suffering and helped people move on to a better life. She also showed me that it was ok to get close to someone.

            I believe Ruth will always be my favorite resident at the nursing home. Each morning, her greeting made me laugh.

            “Hey, shithead, don’t you have work to do?”

            “Mornin, dumbass. What’s up?”

            “Oh, not much. The sky, a couple ceiling tiles, a flashing light, and hopefully Osama Bin Laden.”

            I was afraid of losing Ruth. I knew she was in failing health. She started getting mean with the other residents. She had to eat in her room. A resident eating in their room is not a good sign. It usually means they are near the end. The longer we were friends, the more I noticed she was beginning to slip away. Shortly before she lost her ability to put coherent sentences together, she told me about the great life she’d lived, from the trips she took when she was younger, to her wonderful family. She wasn’t afraid to die. She told me that dying was natural, and that it would be better for her to go before her health got too bad. I started to understand her words, but it was tough to hear. I didn’t want Ruth to die. Sometimes the biggest inhibitor of accepting death is selfishness.

 

 

            When the doctor comes in, he looks somber. We could wait until we could get all my family together before we pulled the plug. Thanksgiving wouldn’t be a good day. Who wants to give thanks on a day that a loved one died? We decided to wait until the day after. So instead of gathering around a stuffed bird, we gather around each other. We don’t want to celebrate. We just want the day over.

           

 

            When I walked into the room, Ruth was sleeping. “Ruth, I have your lunch. Wake up, dumbass.”

            “Shithead,” she said weakly.

            “How are you feeling?”

            “Not so good. I don…..I don’t want to do this anymore. I live here every day, and each day is the same. I get up, and the sun is out there, but I can’t go there, and tractors are everywhere, and it’s hard.

            “I know hun,” I said. She was losing her thought.

            “I just hope that when I get to heaven I’ll be ok.”

            “You will. I’m sure God will take good care of you.”

            “I hope so. Well, you better get to work before I fire your ass again. I’ll talk to you later, Brandon. And thank you.

            Thank you Ruth.

            Less than a month later, she was gone.

           

            We are gathered in the waiting room by 8. Everyone is crying even though we knew today would be grandma’s last. We are allowed to go in and see her two at a time. My mom and I go first. We walk past the blue ICU doors to the large stop sign in the middle of the hallway. My grandmother has spent most of her life battling lung problems. Her sicknesses each winter are frequent and sometimes painful. Maybe grandma’s passing would be a blessing in disguise.

            I step into the corridor with all of the beds. When I walk past, things have changed. The black man with no legs passed away yesterday afternoon. Santa Claus was moved to another room. He had a large family who wanted to be there when he moved on. The nurses placed him in a private room where the family could be free to come and go as they pleased. The man in the hunting accident was the only recognizable face. This morning he was awake, his prognosis good. We smiled at each other as I passed.

            When I see grandma, I feel a sense of relief. I look at her face, wrinkled from years of hard life. She is struggling, her frown deep, face pale. Her short, red curly hair is pushed back on her head in an unrecognizable manner. She has been moved to a new bed. This bed moves her body from left to right every few seconds to keep the fluid in her lungs moving around. I reach for her hand, but I am unsure where it is safe to touch. Most of her hand is covered by tubes and other medical equipment, and I am afraid I would hurt her if I touch her.

            I say goodbye.

            I pray she won’t be in pain when she goes. She has struggled enough. It’s time for her to move on to a better life, free of pain and suffering.

            At noon, we gather tensely. It is time to pull the breathing tube. When it’s done, the doctor will call all of us in to be with her when she goes.

            Five minutes later, a nurse comes in quickly. “The doctor wants you to come in quickly; she’s going faster than expected.”

            Together, as a family, we ran into ICU, ignoring the stop sign warning us to wash our hands. The person we were going to see wouldn’t get an infection if we touched her with dirty hands.

            There were eleven of us crowded around grandma’s bed. We watch as her body heaves up and down at her attempts to catch her breath. My grandfather starts crying, his cries sending everyone over with floods of emotion. He is watching his wife of 49 years leave his life forever. They have shared a lifetime of love and had five children together. This afternoon, he will make plans to lay her to rest until he can join her in heaven.

            Her breathing slows. The machine starts to make beeping noises. Her body starts to shut down, her vital statistics reaching dangerous levels. The attending nurse comes over and shuts the machine off. The resulting silence is eerie.

            I counted her breathing. 1..2..3..4..5..6. Again. 1..2..3..4..5..6. I look at my family: Uncle Wes, Aunt Nancy, Aunt Carol, Aunt Katrina, Uncle Danny, Uncle Bummer, Danny, Grandpa, Mom, Dad, and me. Grandpa is holding Grandma’s hand, a single tear now falling down his cheek. Aunt Carol strokes Grandma’s hair and urges her into heaven. “Go ahead mom, its ok. Go into heaven and be with your mother, she’s waiting for you.” I count again. 1..2..3..4.  I think about Ruth, remembering how she struggled until the very end. I hope she will take good care of Grandma.

             With each breath, she struggles a little more, each struggle weaker. Her body is moving less than before. When she tries to breathe, her increasing frown shows the difficulty. 1..2..3. She is trying desperately to catch one breath in a life where she breathed so many.

            My family stands together, holding each other and comforting grandma. A relaxed look comes over grandma’s face. She tries to catch her breath, but fails. For the longest time I watch, waiting for the next breath. When she does, it is only a half attempt. There were none after that. Everyone turns and leaves. I say a prayer for Grandma and slowly exit to the waiting room to be with the rest of my family. Grandma has gone to a better life, a life free from suffering. It’s what I hope.

 

 

Brandon Maxam is currently employed as an adjunct writing instructor at Jefferson Community College in Watertown, NY and at SUNY Oswego in Oswego, NY. He received a bachelor’s degree from SUNY Oswego in 2005 and a MA in English from SUNY Oswego in 2005.