Anne's End

Since my late sister, Anne, can’t tell me the story of her last two months in the hospital, I will try to present  fragments of awareness in the form of disconnected scenes, some she remembered, others she lost to the morphine, which at least dulled the edge of her pain.
   
The comfort of Michael snoring in the chair. 


Terry here, the best boss in the world.


    Funny that everyone wears yellow around here.  Sheila and Daniel!  They better not be skimping on their work to walk over and see me.  I never would have imagined my employees holding my hands and stroking my forehead, but it feels good.   


    Natalie and Janis are talking.  That is good since I can’t.


    Ah, Maggie’s music.  Good old blues tunes on the guitar.  A room full of people for her impromptu concert.  Hand squeezes all around.


    Why is Bob crying?  I can’t talk around this ventilator.  (Instead, she implores both sister and brother with her eyes registering concerned surprise, asking for explanation.)


    Jan’s birthday . . . yes, Michael, take her out to my favorite Mexican restaurant tonight.  (With her eyes, she gives her blessing on this celebration, fully unaware of how sad and awkward it will be without her there.)


    Ethan?


    Ah, Bradley . . .


    (She rasps out single words, finally, but no one understands them.  When Janis tries to hold her hand, she waves it off—her hands hurt so much with the swelling.) 


    Please, ice.  Please. 


    Jesus . . . not yet.

   
    Michael has no pity for my pain.  He helps the nurses inflict it.


    Don’t you see the desk out there?   Listen, you’ve got to break me out of this joint.  Quick, while the sheriff is gone.  Here’s my attorney’s number.


It was a bad wreck.   I heard 80 mph around the curve.  My legs are broken.   I’m glad you’re here.


Stacy!


Lyn’s water pictures.  I will drink water again someday.


I don’t want to leave UNC.  I have a bad feeling about this.


    Happy Birthday, Janis!  (She sings it out—oh, the pleasure of being able to speak—but Janis looks bewildered and tries to minimize the passage of the four weeks since her Tex Mex heartburn.)


    What?!  They didn’t get the cancer?  It’s inoperable?  (Fear darkens her eyes as she steels herself to new goals.)  The pain won’t be going away . . . I need to build up strength to sit up so I can go home . . . (She falls into the silence of shock.)


    No . . . what are you saying about not coming in tomorrow?  Please, Janis . . .  (Such fear in her eyes, such need.  She needs me much more than I need a break.  I’ll come, Anne.)


    Put up the red truck picture from my godson and the family reunion picture.


    Who would think my timid sister would become a bear, savagely crying and pushing and prodding the nurses and doctors and aides to get their acts together and take care of me?  I don’t have to say a word, just ask for her help with my eyes and she tries.  Lord knows you can’t always win around here, but, by God, she is fighting for me!


    Raw flesh flashing spikes of red-hot pain as the nurses change the wound bandaging again.  Screaming, screaming, torture.  My sister’s hand, thank God.  Scream and squeeze so tight, eyes closed, braced.  Janis stands there silently, tears streaming down her cheeks, a heavy drop of snot swinging from her nose.


    Every minute a hell of pain and nausea and puking.  Janis emptying my vomit bowl, gently wiping a dampened washcloth around my mouth.  Janis calling for the nurses.  Janis checking my open surgery wound and the drain.  Intense whispers outside my room.


    God, another bandage change after another endless night.  At least no more puking.  How much longer can I stand this?  I hear Jan’s soft voice and feel the touch of her hand:  Anne, I’m here.  I squeeze back, look at her, sigh, so relieved she is here.


    Up!  Up!  Janis adjusts the bed, and then I’m gone into some quiet cave.  I hear her voice, but it’s so soft I’m not sure I get the words.  Oh, she’s singing Grandpa’s favorite hymn, “Abide With Me.”  Now she’s telling me it’s okay, I can let go and die if I want, or I can live—she wants me to know that it’s okay to leave.  My cats, my dream house, my hot tub, I miss them so much.  I wanted to go back so badly, but now I’m too tired.  I’ll just listen . . .


    And now she is saying from across the room that Michael is here, that she is going to take a break but will be back in a couple hours.  Michael jiggles my feet, and I hear her say I’ve been unresponsive for several hours.  And then there is the rustle of her plastic gown and the door shutting and the TV turning on and Michael sitting in the chair next to my bed.



    I have to say good-bye to Janis.  There she is driving my truck to the bookstore, suddenly smiling as she says aloud, “I’ll buy myself a couple books as an early Christmas present with your debit card, Anne.  You’ll like that.” 


 And then I am back in my dreary hospital room looking down. I watch myself exhale that last breath.  I see Michael suddenly turn and call the nurse.


In this wonderful slim, light body of my youth, I pass Janis by on wings of joy.  I’m free.