I am cold.
I am angry.
No, "angry" doesn't get it. "Mad" is better.
I'm mad.
I'm pissed, and I'm cold. I shiver a lot and can't seem to get warm.
They came to my room this morning and tried to be nice. I may be sick, but I'm not stupid. They were being nice while they were lying to me. I resented the fact they were lying to me. They smiled a lot, and I resented that, too. There was a male nurse and two female nurses. One I would have done when I was younger, the other I would have left to the guy behind me.
They asked me how I was doing, and I told them how I was doing. My sister says I wasn't very nice about it. (They asked, but they didn't really give a shit. Why should they? I'm just another dying old man they're being paid to take care of.) They didn't pay that much attention to me. They made it look like they were, but they weren't. They talked among themselves while they hooked and unhooked all the wires, and tubes and hoses. Every opening in my body has something shoved in it. And where there isn't a hole, somebody's made one. I hope the ones who did this to me got their jollies -nothing like sticking a plastic tube up an old man's dick.
Damn! It's coming on again. I can tell when it's going to hit. It begins low down, - ohhh - gets stronger, like someone's - unh! - shoving a spear through my guts - unh! I'm - trying - to - fight it - unnhh! - but I - can't. Unhhhhh!

Ohit'stooearlyNoOhGodithurtsITHURTSpainshootingthroughmygutsHELPpleaseHELP sonofabitchIcan'tstandit!morphine?HELPME!something?anything?whywon'titquit?PAIN! PAIN!Nurse!Nurse!forGod'sakedosomethingformeHELPit'skillingme Lord,helpme,pleaseohohatlastatlasatlasttmyeyesareclosedthisterriblepainslowsdown someandIcanbreatheagainthankyou,God,whycan'tIsee?who'soutthere?

anybody?

I've got a headache and whatever the hell it is I'm wearing is soaking with cold sweat and I'm shivering. Gray haze. I think I see a couple of people—not sure, but I think so. They're floating—out of focus. The upside down one is wiping my face. The other, lying on her side, is tugging and pulling on my clammy nightshirt. I hope it comes off because it's making me very cold. I need to be warm.
One of them has a nametag that says "Lorraine . . ." something.
Lorraine. "Sweet Lorraine." Wasn't that the name of a song? Lorraine? Laraine? There was an actress named Laraine. Sweet Laraine. Laraine Day. Beautiful brunette. I loved her. Not as much as I loved Hedy Lamarr or Gene Tierney, but I loved her in spite of the fact that she was married to that shithead Leo Durocher. Why would a woman like Laraine Day marry an ugly son of a bitch like Leo Durocher? Sweet mystery of life. Who's Leo Durocher? Look in the Baseball Hall of Fame, dumbass.
They're telling me they're moving me to make it easier to treat me They say I will be more comfortable where we're going. They smile as they say it.
Bullshit.
I know where they're taking me.
They're taking me to the room where I'm going to die.
The male nurse says, "We're going for a little ride now." I can feel him grabbing the head of the gurney. His grip is firm and he knows what he's doing. I can feel it in the way he maneuvers me through the doors and into the busy hospital corridors. I know they're busy even though I can't move my head very much. I get glimpses of white coats, green scrubs, and preoccupied faces and I wonder if they even notice the body being wheeled past them. Hell no, of course not. They've got other things to think about, like, what's for supper? You die by yourself.
I stare straight up and here and there are those damned fluorescent light fixtures, the kind that shed passionless light. There's no warmth. Fluorescent lights are illumination eunuchs—and I am still cold. Of course, all the hospital corridors I've ever been in are cold. For whatever reason, the hallways are always cold. I need another blanket.
Maybe that's because cold slows everything down. Molecules, someone said once, I think, move slower in the cold. Maybe bacteria and viruses do, too. Maybe that's why doctors never show up when they're supposed to— they've been slowed down by the hospital's policy of cold. I'd laugh if I had the strength.
Everything else above my head is acoustic tiles— eighteen inch square pieces of way off-white asbestos punctured with holes like a pencil puzzle. Connect the dots. Connect the dots and you still get nothing.
Why isn't there a mural up there, like in the Sistine Chapel? If they're going to wheel me through these cold corridors I'd like to see something more than fluorescent lights and acoustic tiles. How about a painting of horny interns chasing nude candystripers? Maybe a painting of God giving the gift of life to Adam? God bless Michelangelo. Why couldn't there be murals on hospital corridor ceilings so that hurting and dying patients wouldn't have to be more depressed while they're being wheeled around in the cold on gurneys that are cold?
We stop, and a few moments later I hear an elevator door opening. My eyes are closed. I keep them closed so I don't have to look at fluorescent lights and acoustic tiles. I can feel the gurney bump as we enter the car.
"You OK?" the male nurse asks.
I don't say anything. Why does he even ask that? He doesn't give a damn. Not really. He's very matter-of-fact and says, "you OK?" as a matter of course. Hell, yes, I'm OK. Why else would I be on this fucking cold gurney? "We'll be in your new room in just a few minutes," he says, and I think to myself, I can hardly wait.
This is the final gate.
This is the room they've prepared for me where my life will end. Why do they keep pretending? Why do they keep feeding me this crap, like I'm some kind of idiot that thinks he's going to get better and be able to go home? My doctor nixed that idea a long time ago. I hurt too much to go home. I want to go home. I want to die in my own bed.
I will come to an end with anxious relatives sitting around listening to the beeps of systems monitors while my life drains away, and the younger ones'll be wondering when they can go out and have a McDonald's without feeling guilty.
They wheel me into a room with a large window. It's what they call a semi-private room. That means there's some other poor bastard in another bed in here. I can't see him, but I can hear him. His breathing is heavy. He gargles when he breathes. "Hey! How you doing, buddy?" "I'm doing great. I haven't got too much longer, so you can have the room to yourself. How you doing?" "What the hell do you care?" "I don't care. I just thought I'd make conversation." "Up yours, Charlie!"
It took four of them to move me from the gurney to the bed. My tubes and hoses and IVs have me trapped. I'm like a bug caught in the middle of a plastic spider web, but they finally get me moved and situated. I tell them to adjust the bed so I can sit up at a slight angle. I want to see outside. I want to see something besides those godawful faded pansy-posie reproductions they like to hang on hospital walls.
If they're going to hang art, I'd like to see some real art while I'm dying. How about Picasso's "Guernica," something cheerful and uplifting like that? It's black and white and gray and full of screams and dead children and animals and crying and terror and death. I mean, I really want to look at something like "Guernica," a masterpiece that makes it easier to leave this shitty existence. If I've got to die now, let's do it full bore, no holds barred. Let's grab death by the gonads.
"Do not go gentle into that good night. . . "
Thank you, Dylan.
Screw you, Renoir!
* * * I do not know.
Dark, light, sunset, dawn.
I do not know.
I hear voices, muted. Incoherent beeps and gurgles. I wish I could understand what all these sounds are, but I can't. I wonder about it a little for a while, but now I don't really care.
I hear a few snuffles. Someone is snuffling. I'd like to tell them not to snuffle. Snuffling is irrelevant. I appreciated snuffling yesterday, but snuffling is irrelevant now. Did I just say that? Is someone here?
I manage to turn my head toward the window. Even though my eyes are still closed I can tell that the sky is becoming light, but it doesn't help. It's muted, and has no warmth.
The sun enters the scene, the beginning of another day. I know it's summer, and in the heart of America that means it's going to be hot and humid. I wish I could feel it.
The sun rises over a forest far beyond my window. A paved road winds along the margin of a landscape of old trees, and brush, and ferns, and mushrooms, and wildflowers, and rotting logs. There's oak and hickory, redbud, maple, and dogwood. There are birds and animals—deer and squirrels, raccoons and wild turkeys. God, a long deep shot of Wild Turkey would taste great. That would be a helluva lot better than whatever they're dripping into me right now. Why not hang a fifth of Turkey up with an IV feed? Great idea. But it wouldn't work. That would be humane.
But, why be bitter?
I blink and look out the window across the tops of the trees. A small white cross rises in the far distance. I remember that there is a Catholic boys' school somewhere over there. The cross is on top of their chapel. It's a beautiful building. I was there once.
The cross is there. Now it's gone. Did I imagine it? No, it's back. The light of the sun reflects from the cross into my mind. I think I should be feeling something, but I'm not sure what. Help me.
The hospital's chaplain is here today. At least, I think that's who it is. He speaks gently. I can feel the pain coming on again and I signal the nurse's station with the button under my thumb. I can barely press it. The chaplain tries to be reassuring but right now I don't give a damn. I hurt too much to give a damn.
The nurse comes in and fools around with one of my tubes. She leans across me and I can feel her generous breast pressing against my arm and shoulder. It is warm, soft, yielding, and comforting. Who would have thought that a mammary gland could make me feel so much better?
The chaplain is saying "Amen."
I agree.
The sun must be high. I ask the nurse to raise my bed higher, so I can look down at the grounds surrounding the hospital. There is a large lawn area and a pond with a spraying fountain in the middle, casting little rainbows. I can tell it is a hot day because the guys operating the mowers and trimmers are sweating.
Their shirts are dark with sweat across the back and under their arms. They probably stink. I see them and wish I could be one of their crew. I'd like to be sweating and stinking with them.
They are moving around and talking to each other, enjoying life. They don't look up toward the huge building hovering over their workspace. Why would they? I'm here and they are down there, concerned with the grass under their feet and feeding their families. I want to be with them. I want to feel the heat and smell salty sweat and the rich green of cut grass instead of antiseptics and laundry soap.
I want to laugh again.
On the road across the way an occasional car carries someone going about his or her business, whatever it is. Is it some mom taking her kids somewhere? Kids. I love them.
A sporty little red car hurries by. Could be some young hard-charging junior executive hustling to an important golf date. Maybe he'll get a promotion.
A big flatbed appears loaded with lumber, probably headed for a building site in one of the growing developments around here. The people traveling this road are vigorous, living lives of purpose and promise. They barely notice the hospital off to the side of their existence. How do I know? None of them are turning into the parking lots. Are they aware that there are minds and souls up there behind those dark windows? Why even think about it?
I am terribly tired and I lay back. I can feel the sun going down. The sky dims. Pretty soon it's going to be be dark. I go back to sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night I wake up. There is quiet activity in my room and I can feel someone moving around my bed. I manage to open my eyes and see a large man dressed in white looking at me as he adjusts something on one of the monitors.
"Hi," he says softly. "I'm Jimmy. I'm here to help you." He smiles.
I attempt to speak, but can't. I just look at him and hope maybe he understands. The white I see is his pants and a plain t-shirt pulled tight across a massive torso. He wears a black belt.
He is tall, russet, with thick black hair pulled into a long braid down his back. In spite of his size, his voice is soft, smooth. Has to be American Indian. I wish I could ask him who his people are. He would be an impressive warrior, but he's gentle, very gentle. He lays a huge hand on my forehead and wipes my face with a soft, warm cloth.
"Feel better?" His eyes are dark, sympathetic.
I try to nod. For some reason, I am feeling better—better than I have felt in a long, long time.
"Don't try too hard. I'm here. I'll be here," I can hear him saying.
I am so tired, so very, very tired. I drift back into sleep. It is later—I don't know how much later—but it is later. I manage once more to open my eyes, barely. The window tells me it is still night. I look toward the foot of the bed and see Jimmy sitting there in the visitor's chair. He said he would be here, and he is. He's smiling.
"Are you ready?" I can hear him saying.
"Yes."
I relax and where I am becomes nothing. Everything else is nothing. I am nothing.
The pain is gone.
Jimmy is still here.


Jerrel L. Swingle is a retired art educator. His work has appeared in the on-line magazines Applecart, E-clips, The Woman's Corner, and in Good Old Days and Storyteller magazines. He and his wife live in O'Fallon.

Copyright © 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

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