Good Morning

Good Morning

By Peter Wallace             

              Walter had a hunch it wouldn’t be long. He didn’t feel any pain, which meant that the dose of morphine he was on must be pretty high. It was more than they’d give to someone who would possibly have a risk of developing an opioid addiction. In other words, someone who might live.

              He, his wife, and his doctor agreed six months before that continuing to treat the tumors wouldn’t improve his chances of recovery, which, apparently, were near zero. To that point the treatments had been pretty rough, so the strategy changed from recovery to a transition into the next chapter. The epilogue, if you will.

Six months was a long time to spend dying. He’d mostly come to terms with it – as much as a person can. There weren’t that many things he’d wanted to do before he died, other than what he always did, so there were no trips to Mount Everest or the Taj Mahal. Instead, he had tried to spend his time thinking and writing, and enjoying the people he cared for, and who cared for him.

At first it was surreal, since he felt okay, and didn’t look sick. Over time, though, things got more serious, and it showed. He was often tired, and not able to be as active as he wanted. Some people didn’t stop by to see him because of that, but other brave souls made it a point to visit because he wasn’t doing well. He admired them.

The worst thing was trying to keep the people in his life from going crazy. His wife, his kids, his sisters, his in-laws, his neighbors… they all wanted to do and say something helpful, and bless them, they tried, but each time one of them said something that they intended to cheer him up or give him hope, he could see in their faces and their posture that they felt they’d failed.

              In reality, while it was painful to see the people he cared for feeling so helpless, it did make him feel good that they cared enough to try to find the right words in the right order with the right inflection. Here’s a secret that he wanted them to know, but didn’t ever express: the right words don’t exist when someone is fading away. At least he didn’t know of any.

              So, Walter lay in the hospice-provided hospital bed that had been delivered to his family home. There was hardly room for it in what was, ironically, called the living room. People needed to turn sideways to pass the bed on their way to the downstairs bedroom or back the other way to the kitchen. There were always people around him, which was nice. He had no reason to feel lonely for his loved ones, but he did feel lonely for his life, now that it was in very short supply. He missed all the spring and summer days, the autumn crispness, and even the brutal winter nights spent snow-blowing the driveway, only to have it drift over again by morning.

              Like so many people in his situation, Walter realized that every day of life, good or bad, is a wonderful gift. It is like an immense punch-card, each day leaving our life-cards a day closer to the time when all the punches are gone.

              He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to remember. There was a day, long ago, when he and his wife, Rose, were dating. It was 1976, which was the widely celebrated bi-centennial of the United States’ Declaration of Independence from Great Britain. Every broadcast organization was doing special bi-centennial programs, bi-centennial minutes, and special bi-centennial movies of the week, starring Mr. T and The Six Million Dollar Man, or something.

              As part of his weekend job working at a local television station, Walter decided to film the sun coming up over the lake on the first day of the third century of the United States. They were always looking for short video clips to play between the news segments. He felt that the bi-centennial sunrise might be meaningful to some people, as he knew it would be to him. He invited Rose to stay at his family’s house in order to get an early start on July 4^th, before the sun awoke for the day.

              Sometime after 4am he quietly entered the room where she was, and tapped her on the shoulder. After an initial protestation, she got up and they loaded up the car.

              His father wanted to come too, to take some snap shots. He was the self-appointed family photographer, and had taken thousands of pictures; some never seen.

Half-awake, and rubbing their eyes, the three of them drove across town to the usually busy park, which was completely vacant. That night there would be standing room only, of course, to see the special bi-centennial fireworks show. But now, as dawn faded into view, it was quiet. They stopped alongside the calm lake.

              Walter got the camera set up, and Rose helped to the extent that she could. His dad took a photo of them working together, and all these years later, they still had it on the desk.

              Back in the present, in his bed, Walter opened his eyes and called his family close to him. He hugged his girls, their husbands, and their children, and pulled his wife, Rose, down to him, and held her. He closed his eyes again.

              Returning to that day in 1976, he could hear Rose’s breathing as he pressed the record button on the camera. In his mind, that sunrise was spectacular. It felt like the beginning of their life together, and also like touching base with his father, who now had been gone for so long.

              Slowly, the darkness of the night was replaced with the sunlight of the new century. He felt Rose touch his back, and he was in ecstasy. He smiled.

              As the darkness from that bi-centennial night faded and the sun rose, his light, at home, surrounded by his family, slowly faded into darkness. 

It was perfect.