One Last Kiss for Caroline

I don’t recognize the room in which I find myself. And I’m not sure how I got here, either. As I open my eyes, it is immediately clear to me that I am not in my own cozy bed with my high thread-count sheets, not in my nice house, and my dog is not sleeping across my lap. Something nearby is chirping quietly. Something else is hissing at regular intervals. But neither of them sounds like my espresso machine or microwave. There is a distinct odor, but it is not my wife’s preferred potpourri. It smells faintly of Bengay and Vicks VapoRub. The thermostat is set too hot here, too. It must be 77 degrees; I prefer to sleep at 62. But because I love my wife I still set it at 68. I feel dried out, thirsty, and hot. But my feet feel cold.

The ceiling is tiled, with the kind of tiles that you can push up and slide them out of their frame if you need access to the space above them, for HVAC purposes usually. But none of the tiles are stained brown from cigarette smoke or coffee, they are remarkably clean. And the walls are a neutral but hideous shade of ivory, which is white with just a hint of yellow thrown in so you can't call it "white." And I’m surrounded by an ugly blue-green curtain hung on a track from the ceiling. And there are half a dozen electrodes attached to my body. And little tubes attached to needles in my arms. And another tube in my nose. And yet another tube down my throat. And this bed has horribly scratchy sheets with a disgusting geometric pattern. And there are cold steel rails on both sides of the mattress. I suppose I’m in a hospital bed. This can't be good.

I try to sit up, hoping to reach down and scratch an itch on my knee. But I can’t. My legs are gone, missing below the middle of my thighs on both sides. They’ve been gone for seven months, but I still get the phantom pains and itches, and sometimes my body still tries to react as if those are real and the limbs are still there. When they first said they had to amputate to cut the cancer out of my bones, they said this would probably happen. I didn’t believe it though, not until about three days after the surgery when it started happening to me. Then they said they didn’t get it all, it had spread too much so they couldn't get it all, and I probably had about three months to live. Waking up like this, something bad must have happened. I proved them wrong – made it seven months not just three – but the thing about life is none of us gets out alive. So I guess it might be my turn to go soon. 

I have no regrets though. Lived life on my own terms. Made my own choices. Made my own mistakes, too. But on the whole, I’d say I’m okay with how things went. I still think it’s too soon for me to go… but it’s not up to me and it never was. And honestly, as scared and frustrated as I am about the fact that I have to leave this life so soon, I’m also excited about answering the greatest of life’s questions: what happens to us when we die? It’s just a shame I won’t be able to tell anyone once I find out the answer to that one.

I can’t see the clock, because this ugly privacy curtain is in the way. But it’s starting to get dark outside the window so I’d guess it’s around dinner time. It’s quite a nice view from up here, I can see across the entire city all the way to the water, and the mountains on the peninsula beyond that. So at least this awful ceiling won’t be the last thing I see.

Someone in scrubs comes in, sees me sitting up in bed, tries asking me a few questions about how I feel, if I know my name, how many fingers is she holding up… but I still have a tube down my throat making it impossible to answer. I point to my mouth and roll my eyes, she realizes and pulls it out for me. I take a minute to clear my throat, she brings me some water. Once I’m able to find my voice again, we go through her “how are you” questionnaire again and this time I have answers for her. Then I ask her what day it is, how long have I been here… only to learn that it’s Valentine’s Day and I’ve been here for six days now. 

Valentine’s Day. Makes me think of my wife, Caroline. We had our first date on Valentine's Day, a long time ago. I feel the familiar pain in my chest as I realize, once again, how much I miss her. How much I wish the driver of that car hadn’t been drunk and stoned and foolish enough to get behind the wheel in that condition. How much she would love the view from this window, despite the reason I’m in here. Sixteen years gone, she is still in my mind and in my heart. Every day. That woman was the best thing in my life, and the best part of me died with her. My other parts seem to be heading that way now.

The young nurse starts to describe what happened, tells me the hospice nurse called 9-1-1 when she arrived and found me collapsed on the floor, and says the doctor will be in soon to discuss “next steps.” Yes, I see the irony in that phrase… “next steps” for a man with no feet and incurable cancer who they said should have been dead four months ago. It’s not funny, but I do see the irony.

She takes my blood pressure, temperature, oxygen levels, and other relevant vital statistics. Then she asks if I need anything – another blanket, or more water? Anyone I want the hospital to call as we make my final plans? I start coughing a bit, my throat still irritated from the tube. My voice fails me. So I beckon her over so I might whisper to her instead of trying to talk with a scratchy throat. She comes close, brushes the hair away from her ear, and bends down with her cheek just inches from me so she can hear my response better. 

I notice she’s wearing a light perfume, which reminds me of my wife’s brand. And she has the same color hair and eyes, too. Both very dark, despite how pale her skin is. My wife was also very pale like that. I can’t help myself. I quickly lean over and kiss her on the cheek softly. Then I whisper in her ear “Thank you.” And I lay back down, roll over onto my side so I can face the window, and utter unto the void, “Caroline, I’ll see you soon.”

A machine beeps angrily. Then falls silent. A small, soft hand squeezes mine for the briefest of moments. I watch the sun setting behind the mountains in the distance until everything… goes… dark.