No joy in this one: TEARS

This is a time, a day, I didn’t expect to see- at least not so soon. The metal bench in the hall outside my wife’s hospital bed is chilled by air conditioning. I move around, walk the halls, go into her room. The morphine dripping into Flora’s arm fuzzes her mind. She doesn’t recognize me. I touch her hand, wipe her forehead and sometimes she mumbles my name. ‘Gene, did you talk to Socrates today? He ’s walking in his atrium.’ Her words fade. The beep beep beep of the saline solution gets a nurse’s attention. She comes in and hangs up yet another bottle that isn’t helping.

 

I like, respect, this nurse as she is from the old school of taking good care of her patients, making square, perfect sheet corners, emptying bed pans. A starched white cap with a black border tells me she was Hopkins trained. Her hair is neat with no long locks letting loose hairs fall into meals. Nurse Lindstrom has been head nurse at Sanford Hospital for over twenty years and can still smile, give solace.

 

Flora is restless, tries to change her position. The tubes are restrictive. Gently I turn her on her right side. The token thin hospital blanket is not much more than a sheet. It is messed up. I pull it down to the foot of the bed, neaten it and start to cover Flora again. My eyes pop. My mouth opens. My spirit hits the skids. There are black, rough areas in several places on her back and buttocks. What is this? I ring for a nurse. Miss Jenkins, about fifty years old and fifty pounds overweight, comes in. She takes a quick look at the marks and explains they are bed sores. I cringe. ‘What will you do about them?’ I ask. Her reply is dismaying, ‘Not much we can do. You can massage them yourself, try to get the blood circulating. Do the best you can,’ and she is gone. 

 

I lie down as close to Flora as I can get, put my hand under the thin blanket, massage each spot I can reach. Flora makes no sound. The lines peak up and down. Her heart beat seems steady. Am I hearing right? Flora whispers, ‘Gene, go home. I’ll be sitting up in the morning.’ It is my heart that beats irregularly. I lean over her, do what used to do to make her giggle. I blow in her ear. Today there isn’t even a smile.  

 

Supper trays clatter in the hall. Empty handed, Miss Lindstrom comes in, offering me her advice. ‘Why don’t you go downstairs to the cafeteria? Our tomato soup is hot and spicy. Crumble some crackers in it. The chicken salad is good too. It’s my break time. I’ll stay here with your wife until you get back. Twice I say, ‘No thank you.’ Before I can say it a third time she pushes me towards the door.

 

Instead of taking the elevator I get some exercise using the stairs both ways. A loud clicking reverberates even in the stair wells. A code blue sends nurses, aides, interns running. I am almost knocked over several times. The 3rd floor door is wide open. ‘No, no!’ I start to sob violently, ‘Don’t let them be in Flora’s room!’ Nurse Lindstrom comes out to get me. She can barely be heard. Her arms go around me as her body shakes with sadness. ‘We didn’t expect this so soon. I would not have sent you away. Your wife didn’t say a word, Gene. Let’s go sit down in the waiting area. Dr. Farrell will call us when you can go in.’ Blindly I follow her down the hall.

 

Thoughts rush through my mind. No words pass my lips. All I feel is that this hasn’t happened. I can’t live without Flora. Thirty five years together and she has left me. I feel like a cuckoo clock with no yellow cuckoo inside. Empty. All joy rampages out of my mind. A river of salty tears comes in. I moan. I mourn way before the grave is dug. No calls, no visits console me. I let the phone ring, don’t even write down who left a message. On my front door, I put a card, ‘Do not disturb.’ Within two weeks I don’t recognize myself in the bathroom mirror. I have a graying, scraggly untrimmed beard. I look like shit but don’t  care.
Awake or asleep, I visualize the baby, we never had, being buried a few graves from Flora. My sister selected a cold brown monument for my wife. It is ugly. I want to destroy it. Instead, each Sunday I kneel before it, place white roses over Flora’s head. My boss gives me a month’s leave at half pay. I take it and consider suicide.

 

Dr. Poland, the fool who declared my wife dead, wants me to come to his office as Miss Lindstrom has told him that I am very depressed and need help. She has written me, stopped by once or twice and I don’t want to let her down. Dr. Poland explains depression to me. A waste of time and probably money for the visit. He writes a prescription for me. I put it in my pants pocket and start to leave. At the door, Dr. Poland hands me a book he has written (no charge).

 

The fly leaf reads, ‘Good luck,’ Below that, in fine script, it says, ‘MORNING COMES AFTER MORNING AND WE RISE TO SEE THE WORLD AWAKEN.’

 

My visit was worth the cost. I’m going back to work next Monday.