Ruminations in the Dark

I can’t sleep. I roll over in my bed, trying to find a comfortable position. It’s freezing in here. My legs become restless, so I climb out of bed as fast as my arthritic joints will let me, and limp into the hallway to turn up the heat. I flick the light switch, and nothing happens. The power is out, go figure. No wonder it’s so cold in here. I find my way into the dark living room and sit in my recliner, hastily covering myself with several blankets, and I slowly begin to warm up. I light the candle on my coffee table, and it allows just enough light for me to see my immediate surroundings.

I look around at my beloved books that crowd the shelves lining all four walls. I pick up my favorite picture of my wife and son from when he was a little boy and lightly glide my thumb along each of their faces.

I hear a slow, faint beeping through the paper-thin wall to my young neighbor’s apartment. He seems to sleep through his alarm a lot. I hope he is able to enjoy the sleep now before it begins to elude him as he gets older. One day, he won’t even need that damn alarm clock.

I wonder how his relationship is with his folks. My son doesn’t even talk to me anymore. The last time we talked, we argued about… hell, I don’t even remember what it was we argued about, but he hasn’t come around since. I should give him a call and apologize. For what, I don’t even know, but he’s my only son and lately I have been aching to see his face again. My wife passed several years ago, and I miss her like mad.

Bright lights blind me as a car sweeps its headlights across my window and is gone again. It brings me comfort knowing someone else is awake. I don’t feel so alone.

I pick my favorite book up off the table and pull the tattered bookmark from the spot where I last left off. It’s a hardback copy of John Steinbeck’s short novels, and page 273 begins the tale of Mack and the boys. I read the whole story and feel a tear glide down my cheek when I finish. I used to read this story to my son a lot. He always loved the trouble that Mack and the boys got caught up in. I miss my son. I really should call him.

The living room is a little lighter now, and I realize I stayed awake the entire night, and I feel it deep in my bones. I am exhausted. I just wish I could sleep. Maybe I’ll sleep today and then call my son when I wake up and have a fresh mind. I can hear my neighbor’s alarm clock still going off, but the beeping seems to have gotten slower. I pull the blanket up over my chest and feel comforted by the warmth.

I lean my recliner all the way back and take a deep breath. I smile to myself as I picture my son’s face, and I finally fall asleep.

----------  

The 87-year-old patient was admitted to our hospice facility two weeks ago from his retirement home. Our resident cat has been sleeping at the foot of his bed since he fell comatose the night before last. It won’t be much longer now.

I return to his room for midnight rounds and notice his blanket is on the floor. Damn cat. The thing scampers out the open door, having just jumped off the patient’s legs. The poor guy must be cold. I pick up his blanket and tuck it back around his body. I find midnight rounds to be very peaceful. A single lamp on the bedside table provides enough light for me to see the patient. We like to keep it dark enough in the patients’ rooms at night to help keep their circadian rhythms regular. We try to make dying as comfortable and peaceful for them as possible.

The retirement home also sent over the patient’s personal belongings. A stack of well-loved books takes up most of the bedside table, along with a single frame with a picture of a woman and a little boy. Smudges on the glass tell me the man held this photo a lot.

I begin checking his vitals. His heart monitor beeps rhythmically as his chest slowly rises up and down. The soft beeping is almost cathartic in the quiet hours of the night.

I have been his hospice nurse since he was admitted, and he hasn’t had a single visitor yet. I know he has a son, but from what I have heard, his son dumped him in the retirement home years ago. I wonder if that was the last time he saw his father. I wonder if he knows he’s dying. I don’t have any information about the man’s wife, or if she’s even still alive.

I raise his eyelids one at a time, shining my penlight in each eye to check his pupillary response. His vitals still seem strong, but they are getting weaker. I jot down my notes on the clipboard and hang it back on the wall. I make myself comfortable in the visitor’s chair and hold his hand. I know he’s in a coma, but I can only hope he knows he’s not alone in here.

I pull out the book I have been reading to him and open it to the next John Steinbeck story that starts on page 273, and begin reading “Cannery Row” out loud. He must have liked this story a lot since the pages are all worn down. I read to him until dawn and when I look up, I notice a single tear on his cheek. I wonder what this story makes him think of.

As daylight spills into the room through the window, I glance at the photo on the man’s bedside table and wonder if I would be able to find his son’s phone number. He should be here to say goodbye to his father. But as I have that thought, the the heart monitor starts to beep slower. The cat jumps back onto the bed and curls up on the man’s chest. I hold his hand in mine, caressing the fragile skin on the back of his hand.

I swear the slightest smile appears on his lips as his chest deflates one last time. The monitor flatlines, and a single, steady beep notifies me that he is gone.