"It's Time: 0600"

Prompt: Write a story with a number or time in the title.

Prompt: Set you story before midnight or dawn.

“It’s Time: 0600”

The day looked dreary and cold even as the sun had just lifted above the horizon. The thick air turned the sunlight into straw-colored clouds as I looked out my window from my bed. The weather outside really does not matter anymore as I have little energy to do anything now. My breathing has been erratic even with all the gadgetry and tubes running into me.

I spend my days now lying in this bed at the rehabilitation center. I watch the old TV monitor above the foot of my bed. I should be grateful for it even though I only have access to two channels. One is the home shopping network; and, the other plays reruns of Golden Girls. I detest both. I continually replay in my mind how I got to be so bad. A day does not go by when I ask myself “why me”? And the stark reality of my situation becomes clear again when I see the aides and nurses wearing face and mouth masks, gloves, and disposable body gowns. All were unfamiliar people and no family members were allowed.

The pandemic has been wretched for a lot of people. So many have perished by this insidious virus. So many have lost jobs, and, so many are struggling with health issues like myself. I had been in the hospital for several weeks before insurance would not cover my care in a hospital facility. I was transferred to a state rehab center usually meant for individuals on public aid. The people attending to me are kind and sincere, but are at the mercy of antiquated equipment as the result of stingy state funding.

I know this well because my lung machine would occasionally malfunction. Yes that sinister virus decimated my lungs. Without mechanical assistance I would have long since perished. I find some comfort hearing the purr and clink of my breathing machine.

When I first arrived at the hospital many weeks ago, my extremities were turning blue and my breathing was seriously irregular. I felt suffocated and I knew I was dying. My pulmonologist guessed I would soon die in a few days. We were both amazed; however, that I did better on the breathing apparatus and from the multiple infusions of medications after just one week. Then two weeks passed and it was the third week when the doctor told me he put me on the transplant list for two new lungs. I was amazed he said this. As I wheezed and sputtered my words at him, I asked “what makes you think I will survive the operation?” He responded “because you have a big heart and a strong will to live.”

It has been two months now since he said that to me. No donor and there are none on the metaphorical horizon. He said if one was found they would race me back to the hospital and do the transplant. But here I lay in this bed hooked up to this inferior machine. My strength is waning now as I write my story.

It is rare for someone to share their final chapter at death’s door. My brain fog at times obscures my reasons for doing this. I suspect it mainly helps to keep myself occupied. If I were to write about my life’s story, the reader might easily be bored to tears. However, when there is adversity, drama, or impending death the reader might follow it to the end. Truthfully, I hope my written story ends before I do.

My plight over the months has truly resonated with family and friends. Word got around. People from the community have sent me cards and letters. I have not been much of a spiritual or religious person but I could sense their prayers bathing healing words upon me.

Out of the blue my pulmonologist showed up in the wee hours of this morning before dawn. He seemed anxious. Nervously he said, “we have two healthy lungs for you. The transport helicopter is landing at the heliport as I speak. So, it’s time. 0600 is your scheduled surgical time. In a short while you will be transported back to the hospital and prepped for surgery.”

Meanwhile, I gazed through the window as the sun rose like any other day. Soon my body would be prepped for surgery. Yet, I felt I needed to prepare my mind and heart for the physical battle ahead. In one of my many letters, I whispered to myself a few of the bible verses sent to me.Two were from Job: “In His hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind.”And, “The Spirit of God has made me; the breath of the Almighty gives me life.” (1)

My thoughts were interrupted as a masked nurse came into my room. It was not long before I became woozy. I fumbled with another letter. It was written by someone I had never met. It was entitled Breath.

Feel the release of air from your lungs when you say my Name.

Ehyeh.

Know the life it brings when you say my Name.

Ehyeh.

Know that every moment you breathe, you are saying my Name.

Ehyeh.

When you are troubled, say my Name.

Ehyeh.

When you are hurried, say my Name.

Ehyeh.

When you repent, say my Name.

Ehyeh.

When you are glad, say my Name.

Ehyeh.

Fill your lungs with my holy Presence at the speaking of my Name.

Ehyeh.

Understand you exist (tih yeh) because of my Name.

Ehyeh.

God said to Moses, “I AM WHO I AM. (Ehyeh asher Ehyeh). This is what you are to say to the Israelites: I AM has sent me to you” Exodus 3:14

“Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.” (1)

As I mouthed these words, my eyelids become heavy and I fell asleep.

-END-

Dedicated to those who succumbed to the enemy of Death during the pandemic. Honor is given to those who fought the battle as front-line warriors, then and even now.

NIV=New International Version

(1) 12:10 & 33:4, NIV

Author: Pete Gautchier

Acknowledgement: Reedsy.com prompts