Marianne sits weeping to herself in the corner. Poor Marianne. The kids (but they aren’t kids anymore, are they?) are on their way, and Walter struggles against what may well be the last sleep. The immobile frailty of his limbs, the tinny taste in his mouth, the drug-dimmed bowel pain turned to terrible numbness; unpleasant omens all, in his opinion.
This is it, Walter thinks to himself. I’m dying, the jig is up, the farm has been cashed, bucket kicked. He lies helplessly in his uncomfortable hospice cot in the hellishly sanitary mint green room. An assortment of important looking machines blip softly, rhythmically. Rubber lifelines and plastic tubes and electric cables connect Walter variously to medications and oxygen, to plasma; to the wall socket like some sort of appliance.
How best to sum up a life? he wonders. Knowing the time is at hand, what can one really say before stepping off life’s magnificent stage? How much his wife and kids and friends all meant? How a lifetime of useless work has been tragically cut short before reaching retirement? How his only vice ended up being the instrument of his demise? How is Walter to be remembered at his deathbed?
Therein lies the rub. Having been a fairly well-read person in his youth, Walter can think back to the wonderful deathbed expressions that make for such fine retelling. Either these curtains go or I do. Show my head to the people, it is worth seeing. Jefferson still survives. Drink to me. It’s my turn to take a leap into the darkness. That sort of thing.
The kids arrive. Thomas and Bobby and Carol and their wives and husband Walter never particularly cared for. Carol and Bobby are crying and Thomas might be too were it possible. Marianne leaves quietly, having been sitting there in her corner most of the morning. The kids are all talking, at him or to him, it doesn’t make much sense. Walter’s eyesight is starting to loop in and out and in, and their words are all sounding foreign to his ears. The tinny taste is terrible but fast fading, and Walter feels as though he is getting immeasurably lighter.
“Is this death, then?” he thinks he says as he fades out for the last-
He hopes that those aren’t his final words to his children. But brightness soon follows, as the room returns. The kids are all looking at Walter nervously, Bobby with a hand on his shoulder. He must only have faded out for a moment, and the tinny taste returns with his loathing of the room he lies in.
“Thought my number was up,” he chuckles weakly, buying for time.
Sum up a life, package it all up… should he say something political, something soppy, something endearing? A piece of advice or timeless wisdom? Should he make something up, a fantastic treasure or the like? Should he express any regrets? Walter doesn’t feel any, but perhaps it’s the medication making him all euphoric and indifferent. Nurse? Nurse? Carol is asking if she should fetch a nurse?
“I think I’ll be resplundage,” Walter slurs, thoughts muddling.
And everything again fades out rather suddenly, and a fear grips at his chest. Ye gods, this is it, sure as a day, ended on a daft note. And as he tumbles into the dismal blackness he is brought just as quickly back with a jolt; a literal, painful jolt as a mint green clad doctor takes the defibu-whatsits from off Walter’s wheezing, panicked chest.
They’ve got an oxygen mask over his mouth and he knows this is it, third time going down fire for the count and all. Walter would wrest it off and away if he could but lift his arms, tell them he loves them without being able to remember who they are particularly. Something, anything. His lips are moving, he attempts to speak something, anything. It is Thomas who comes forward and pulls back the death mask from his face. Sum up a life, a happy life with time running short-
“I’ve eaten a lot of good food,” Walter says feebly, and dies promptly thereafter.
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