Don't They Know I'm Not Dead?

Next to my husband I lay on our bed. He’s crying. Why is he crying? I hear him sob my name.

“I’m here!” I call out. But I don’t. My mouth is frozen in place. My jaw is hanging open. That’s strange, why can’t I move my jaw?

He gets up and pulls on his discarded clothes from the day before. His eyes are bloodshot.

“George!” I try to say, but again, no sound.

I try to stand, but nothing moves. So odd.

I become aware that It feels like I’ve wet the bed, something I haven’t done since I was seven years old. But I can’t smell it. I can’t smell anything, actually. Am I paralyzed?

George walks back over to me and holds my hand. His hand is so warm, hot actually. Or maybe mine is cold.

I hear him choke out another sob “Why?”

He dials a number on his phone and I hear the other side answer “West Side Funeral Services, how can I help you?”

Funeral?

I hear him say his wife is dead. But that can’t be. I’m his wife. Doesn’t he know I’m not dead?

What might be hours later, two men pick me up and lay me on a stretcher. They place a white sheet over me. Damn them, now I can’t see.

I can hear them talking to George, telling him about funeral arrangements. They must have it wrong. I’m not dead. I try to scream at cry out to them that I’m not dead, but again, I can’t speak.

At some point they pick up the stretcher and carry me somewhere.

I can tell I’m in a car now, I can feel the bumps of the road and hear traffic. Strange that I can hear and feel but not smell or taste. The men closed my eyes so now I can’t see. And I can’t open them on my own.

They move me again, I feel them take off the sheet, and my nightgown, I feel them place me in something that feels like a tarp. And then the sound of a zipper. While they picked me up, my eyes fell open, but it’s dark now.

They carry me again and I hear a door unlock.

It’s cold here now. So damn cold. I’ll die of frostbite.

But I don’t die. For hours, maybe days, I lay in the cold, in the dark, unmoving. And I’m still not dead.

Someone moves me from the cold, thank God. It’s still cold here but not as much. They pull me out of the bag, their gloved hands still warmer than my own skin.

I'm placed on a table by the woman who took me from the bag. She’s wearing a mask and gloves. She has a plastic poncho on over fine clothes.

She starts washing me, it’s uncomfortable but at least it’s another woman doing so.

She takes a set of odd-looking plastic pieces covered in spikes off her tray. I can’t imagine what they might be for, but I suppose I’ll find out.

She takes her thumb and forefinger and opens my right eye. My stomach churns with dread. My eyes? My beautiful green eyes?

She places the cap on my eyeball and uses the spikes to secure my eyelid. I try to scream in pain as she does it, protest her doing the other eye, but I can’t.

Doesn’t she know I’m not dead?

She does the other eye, and the pain begins to subside. Now I can’t see what she’d doing but I know it can’t get better from here.

I feel a sharp pain shoot through my lower jaw, then another into the roof of my mouth. I’m aware of a pulling sensation as my mouth is closed, a wire rests there now.

It feels like she’s drawing blood. I tried to donate once in college, and I passed out. Maybe I’ll do that now. But it goes on for too long, doesn’t she know she’ll kill me doing this?

As my blood drains, I feel a new liquid. Good, she’s replacing it. The new stuff in my veins is thin though, not like blood. I should be dead if she replaced my blood with something else. God, why am I not dead?

I think she stabs me in the stomach That’s what it feels like at least.

This is the oddest thing I’ve ever experienced, it hurts, sure, but more importantly, it feels like my organs are being sucked out.

I realize that they are.

I wish I could see what she’s doing.

Again, the same thin liquid feeling is in my stomach now. How? How can I feel this?

I’m aware that she’s putting me in a dress. I think it’s the one that George just bought me. The one I was going to wear to the gala on Saturday. The gala. I wonder how it went. Did George even go?

I feel a paint covered brush drag over my face, the soft bristles reminding me of my makeup at home. She brushes all over my face and then I feel something rub against my eyelashes. Mascara? She’s putting mascara on a corpse.

I hope I don’t look like those people that I’ve seen at funerals. Makeup the wrong shade, flat features. But I’m sure I do.

Will George like it? Or will he think I look all wrong?

The woman clasps a necklace around me. My cross, I’d almost forgotten they took it off. I wonder if I really am dead. If so, then why am I still here? I should be facing judgement with St. Peter, right?

The woman lifts me into something soft. A casket, I realize. At least it’s better than the table.

Eventually I’m moved to what I’m guessing is the chapel. I hear amazing grace played on an organ. I always hated amazing grace. Shouldn’t George know that?

Everything I hear is muffled by the box around me, but I can tell there’s sniffling. People are crying. Odd, I never imagined I’d be cried over, but I suppose my parents are there, and George too.

Someone speaks, they’re reading from the bible. They shouldn’t be. I’m still here. I’m not in the embrace of any god, let alone mine.

Another person speaks, I think it’s George. He’s crying. Good. No, not good, I shouldn’t want him to be in pain. But I can’t help but feel relieved that my husband is crying for me.

Eventually the speaking stops. I feel the casket is lifted. I wonder who the pallbearers are.

Another car ride, this one short, takes me to what must be the cemetery. I wonder if George got me a nice headstone or just one of those bronze plaques in the ground. Part of me hopes it’s a plaque. He shouldn’t have spent more money than needed.

The casket is picked up again and moved. One of the pallbearers is significantly shorter than the others, the one in the left corner, by my foot.

I feel the casket placed somewhere. This is it. I’ll be buried six feet below. How much longer will I be aware? Maybe my grandmother was right, my soul will remain until I’m buried. This will be the end. Finally I’ll see heaven’s gates.

The casket is lowered. Almost. I’m almost free.

The dirt starts falling on the lid of my prison. I wait patiently. Almost.

Eventually it stops falling and I’m still here.

Don’t they know I’m not dead?