Dane Myers
Respite
I circle the upstairs, gathering together dirty clothes, and descend to the kitchen. I'd asked the patient's husband, Ron, if I could give a hand with the laundry. By washing the clothes of others, through color, styles, and stains, I learn of their outside world. I'm never with patients or families for long -- laundry lets me know them more closely, fast. A fabric's texture and fragrance even tells me something of their inner lives. Meanwhile, my own hampers have, for the first time in years, overflowed to the floor.
Ron, about forty like me, sits in the shadows, writing lists. "I don't expect a hospice nurse to do housework," he says, "but if it'll pass the time."
"I need something to do with my hands. Maybe she'll sleep."
Ron's ruddy biceps bulge through his white t-shirt as he scratches the black pen across the page.
A line divides the paper down the middle. On the left side, headed After, he's
written: insurance/ lawyer, summer camp, and dentist. The other half, headed
Before, remains blank. Beside his paper, a glob of strawberry jam looks like clotted blood; several fruit flies hover above. I wipe the tan formica table and separate the clothes into tidy piles of lights, darks, and reds.
He looks up and Ron's face, wrinkled by the pain and fear of his wife's cancer, appears wilted and old. Death's a lot like marriage. On T.V. they're so simple, romantic and clean. We all find ways to escape loneliness: my husband goes online and our children have their I-pods and phones. I sort and fold clothes, dream of possible lives to come, and sustain my own marriage through close moments with those about to go. Ron's thick charcoal hair is disheveled -- his exhausted, thirsty eyes drift into my breasts, perhaps picturing me naked. I like how he looks at me, how it makes me feel like another person in another time, but know I shouldn't. My lip twitches and he turns away like a child caught staring at scars. The house shudders from a bleak western gust. Many would say the husband of a woman about to die shouldn't be eyeing her nurse. Some become numb, many turn angry, a few become tender, even lusty.
I find a worn magenta sweatshirt and can't decide whether to place it with the lights or reds. I know Ron would never touch me, unless I touched him first -- and I'd never touch him first. Out the window, bright flecks swirl toward the ground and, for an instant, I think the petals from an ornamental plum are pink snow. Despite the heat, a weary chill pierces my skin. The moment bodies come into contact something is lost, or dies. An eerie cloud of bronze dust swirls past. Spring winds have evaporated the last remnants of winter, it could just as easily be fall. A strange ochre barn-shaped clock, mounted to the wall above the sink, announces the hour. Rather than a cuckoo, it emits a cock's seven whining crows. The gaudy clock must have been a gift from someone who'd notice its absence.
I take a deep breath but don't like how the dry air prickles the inside of my chest. Ron tirelessly adds to his
After list: service van, rake yard, repair sprinklers. I pluck three goathead stickers attached to a child's orange sock. Had he stared at my breasts, or into space? Perhaps I'd imagined his desire from my own. I'll like how the clothes go in reeking of vomit, verbena lotion, and cancer, but will come out of the dryer clean, smelling like Tide, ready to be worn again. I used to make lists, too. My favorite list contained the names of patients. Burn what you worship, I'd been told; the handwritten names made tall, spiraled, short-lived flames.
The patient's two kids are at their grandmother's. Ring around the rosie trickles into my thoughts. My own two kids would still be awake, doing their homework or playing electronic games while my husband finishes the dishes or surfs the internet. I like swing shifts, once in a while. "You could go for a walk," I tell Ron.
"Maybe later," his shallow voice trembles. "I should stay."
A pair of Ron's blue jeans has holes in the knees. I nearly throw them away, as if they were mine. I remove a tube of coconut lip balm from the left front pocket. He writes another word -- Trish. I quickly apply his balm to my own dry lips before setting it on the table. The tropical taste reminds me of a secluded beach, crashing waves, and the briny scent of decomposing kelp. Who's Trish? A relative, a friend, his lover? I try to picture Ron lying upon the water's edge, but the vision isn't clear; I can't even distinguish the shells from the sand. I look back at the list and, when I see the word's actually trash, I wonder how I could have
mistaken an a for an i.
"How much longer?" he asks.
I like mystery, not answers. "It's early, she won't die before sunset." There's nothing more certain, and uncertain, than death. It's easy for some to imagine a tidy, dramatic end gushing with love, a peaceful last gasp, the solemn closing of eyes. I've accompanied hundreds down the aisle of death and know the sticky secretions, nightmares, and hard words, like nasty sex. My husband likes tame sex -- slow, gentle, and quiet. His clothes smell like Right Guard and the vanilla scent he gets at the car wash. Now I'd like a full-mooned night of wild, end-of-the-world, sweaty sex with furry velvet ties, drops of fuchsia wax, and clawed fingernails, or so I imagine.
Ron thrusts his pen aside and stands. "Maybe one lap around the block. I'll carry my cell."
The day shift nurse had almost called for an ambulance. If families and friends become overwhelmed or need a break, we send patients to the hospital for respite care. I seldom use respite and, when I do, it's usually to give the patient, and others, a few moments apart. The laundry room's dark as a tomb. I should move out from my own home, at least for a while. I toss the pile into the mustard/gold washing machine, add soap and color-safe bleach to the dispenser. If my husband beat me, had an affair, or told me he was gay I could leave the next day, with the children, or send him away. I turn the knob past "Delicate" to "Normal" and press "Start": the washer clicks, water gushes onto the clothes. He'd remain docile, faithful, and straight. The lid reminds me of a giant steel tongue, I close it. I'm glad an ambulance hadn't been called.
I go upstairs. Below, the washer scrapes and grinds like there's rust between the agitator and drum. The patient's hospital bed has been placed in the guest room. Inside, the air is thick with the strange, somber smell of cancer, like moldy lemons, acetone, and rancid almonds. I used to think chemotherapy caused the sour odor, now I know it's the tumors. I used to encourage patients to burn lavender incense, now the bittersweet smoke adds one odor too many and makes my nose itch. Now I'd rather smell cancer.
The room's beige walls look jaundiced and pale. My husband also prefers off-whites; someday I'll paint a room red, at least the trim. There's a vase of withered pussy willows on the nightstand. Gail wears emerald satin pajamas. Naked, she'd be closer to nothing than her original weight. "Any pain?" I ask.
She opens her eyes. "My pain, sadness, and fright are like a hurricane's rubble. I can't pull them apart, anymore."
There's an aubergine scarf where there'd been a pound or two of hair. A long, twisting loose thread circles across her brow.
"And the thirst never ends."
I want to cut away the thread before it unravels any further. I lift a straw to her desiccated lips and she sucks so forcefully I'm afraid she'll gag. I used to worry about patients not drinking enough; now I know dehydration sometimes means less suffering, I leave it to them. Across from her bed, on the television, a child swings alone, nearly touching the ground. It's either an old movie or a black-and-white T.V. I wish, rather than each in their separate rooms, my children would spend more afternoons outside. A collage of absurd images breaks into my consciousness: I'm carried by a drunken carnival troupe amidst the clamor of whistles and shouts -- a magician makes me vanish into a bubbling pool of lava -- I reappear centered in a ring of chanting, malevolent clowns. A pocket full of posies, they cackle. What are posies, anyhow? Flowers, words? In the hospital they're the leather restraints used to bind wild patients. The digital clock says "6:37" but it's never shown the correct time. I hear water, like blood, coursing through the pipes; the washer's shifted to the rinse cycle.
"You look tired," says Gail.
"I tossed and turned last night." My splintered mind, together with the uncertain holes that surface in the darkness, keep me awake. I squeeze the medicine dropper's round, black bulb. "This will help the physical pain. It's named for Morpheus, god of dreams."
She clasps my hand. The fingers of the dying, like those of children, are trusting and warm. Despite all the water she drinks, there's no perspiration. Some say you shouldn't get too attached to your patients, that you'll burn out.
"I like dreams," she says.
The rooster's flat, wavering crow announces half-past. The hands of men are coarse, sticky, and hard -- perhaps from centuries of holding swords, hammers, and pens. I'd never been raped and my husband doesn't press for sex but his craggy, tepid fingers make me want to scrub my hands clean. I imagine the caress of Ron's sweaty palm upon the small of my back. I'm lost in the sensation, then I suddenly feel like a tarantula's crawling up my spine.
The moment Gail opens her mouth, she closes her eyes. I squeeze the plastic bulb. Several drops of liquid morphine ooze from the tip and fall to her tongue.
"A little more?" she asks.
"Might kill you," I joke. She squeezes my hand with impossible strength,
I give the bulb another squeeze in return. Not enough to kill her,
almost, but enough so she'll sleep from her cancerous breasts. I consider
sampling the slightest taste of morphine. Instead, I turn and place the vial
to my nose -- I smell poppies, or so I imagine. I hear the washer's muffled
electronic buzz; time to change loads. I turn on the humidifier and turn
off the television. The vertical blinds create a ghostly, ashen web and the
smoky shades remind me of seaweed, swaying with the tide. I'm not certain
whether the shadows are caused by a streetlight or moon, but they make her
cheeks appear striped, faded, and worn. She doesn't release my hand until
her eyes recede into their cloudy, opiate haze. I'd thought of becoming
a midwife but delivering death's not so different from delivering life.
All of us are dying the instant we're born. The mauve quilt rises then
falls from a shallow inspiration. I am glad I'm not the one about to
die, not much, and I envy her deep sleep.
Downstairs, I move the tangle of mossy light-colored laundry to the dryer. The clothes smell faintly of iron and I want to add buy a water softener to Ron's After list. From the lint trap's mottled colors I know the previous few loads hadn't been sorted. I toss in a "Spring Fresh" fabric softener and set the dryer to "Permanent Press." I watch through the glass as the laundry circles and tumbles. When my kids had ear infections or bad colds I stayed awake through the night. I toss dirty, dark clothes into the washer and set the knob to "Heavy Duty." Sitting beside a sick child's bed, I'd recall their smooth lips at my breasts and envision their days to come. I picture the water eroding into the dirt, grime, and loose fibers. There's something almost arbitrary about husbands and loving another man could never be worth any separation from my kids.
Ron arrives home and I ask if he'd like some toast or eggs. "I can't eat, maybe some coffee." He returns to the chair beside his lists, I stand to work on the laundry. He has a five o'clock shadow, an ink stain on his right index finger, and dark circles beneath his eyes. Something about his face makes me think of a jellyfish drifting toward shore. As I fold a pink nightgown Ron opens his mouth to speak -- nothing comes out.
"You want to tell me something," I say. "We'll keep it buried between us and the laundry."
"A week ago Gail asked to be carried back to our old bed, one last time."
I savor the dark chocolate pain in his words.
"She weighed less than my son. I couldn't believe she'd want sex."
I separate the clean clothes of the children from those of the adults. The magenta sweatshirt appears faded; it's turned itself inside-out. "Those about to die have the oddest cravings." A blood orange sits atop a pewter bowl of fruit. One side is dirty but I'd like to peel it and feel the sticky, ruby juice across my tongue. I picture Gail's waning, gaunt body trying to move in rhythm with Ron, there's a hushed moan. Her grotesque features and naked beauty are, like those of a gargoyle, inextricably linked.
"It was hard to get hard and I was afraid I'd break her brittle limbs."
My fingers feel apart from my hand as they rake themselves through my hair, rubbing my scalp like a stiff brush. Ron's brown eyes, speckled with amber, appear swollen and moist, like cherries that should have been picked yesterday.
"It felt good." His voice droops. "And I wished we could do it the next day too."
I ignore my coffee but swallow each of his words and imagine myself upon her deathbed, kissing his muscular neck. By static electricity, a black silk bra clings to one of the sleeves. I detect the faint smell of a bitter lilac perfume. The bra appears too small for Gail, I should've washed it in cold.
"Death is so bizarre," he says.
Now he'd never sleep with her again. Life's a terminal, sexually transmitted disease and death's like a washer, tumbling across our dusty skins. Beauty, without death, would become shallow, then empty. "What's strange is living."
"Don't you get tired of it?" he asks.
"Which?" I pause. The left half of his mouth lifts toward a smile -- the other side remains flat. "It wears you down, but I always get something in return." Altruism is for short-timers, and frauds and the strange, creeping isolation of middle age is a dress rehearsal for dying. A white sock's dyed pink. Is it possible I washed it with reds? The sock's mate must be with the lights, left behind in a closet, or lost in the dryer. The cock crows another hour, nine. My husband's face makes me think of a screen saver and his comments remind me of a morning T.V. talk show. He's good with the kids, I'd loved him once, and he leaves me alone -- but, the minute he comes in, I'd rather be out hanging clothes on the line. I imagine he's acquired some lingering, terminal disease and, for a second, I picture myself tossing him into a giant washing machine.
It's late. I prepare a pitcher of ice water and cut three slices of watermelon, in case she's awake. The out-of-season fruit's firm near the rind but mushy at the center. I grab a pair of scissors and swing the laundry basket across my hip, almost losing my balance. I start a list in my head: I should catch up on my own laundry, I should sign my kids' report cards, I should call home to say goodnight; maybe later. I walk upstairs, stopping on the landing to look outside. There's a faint crimson glow just above the horizon and I wonder whether it's a satellite or Mars. I see movement but it's my own blurred, weary reflection. The flat, opaque image reminds me of a mannequin.
By the half-moon's dim, gloomy light I make out the silhouette of small footprints, like tiny craters, in the dried mud. A high cement block wall surrounds the desolate yard. The diminishing tracks angle toward a gate and do not return. I picture my own children in the yard together: he digs holes, she climbs a gnarled tree. I help the kids with their homework, I usually put them to bed, but I find it so hard to play. A branch snaps. "Mommy," she cries. Maybe it was wrong to bring children into this world of money and words -- wars, warming, and waste. The girl strikes the barren ground with a reverberating thud but the image is obscure and I'm uncertain whether she's mine, another's, or myself as a child. Was I selfish to have kids? I'd obtain their certain love, they'd obtain arid waves of isolation and sorrow -- and death. Gravity's cruel.
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. If I went away I wouldn't see my children every day, not even in their sleep, and there'd be no one to stay awake when they were sick. The gray earth looks parched, there'd be fires soon.
Inside the guest room, breast cancer, the humidifier's mist, and a vague metallic odor make the air smell like fermented apples. She's still asleep. Her lips come together and part with the ebb and rise of each feeble breath. I envy her moment's freedom from suffering. Most like to decide what will be done with their bodies after they die. Some choose what clothes will be put upon them, a few choose what they'll be wearing on the day of their death. I used to think I'd like to be cremated. I still wouldn't want to be embalmed but, now, I'd rather not be burned.
A lone drop of sweat, like dew, rests upon Gail's temple. I submerge a rag in the pitcher, plunging it beneath the ice cubes, squeeze it damp, and softly wipe her sunken face. She stirs, her hand touches my knee. What does she dream? For toddlers, sleep is death. Now I wish Gail will linger several more days so my imagined scene with Ron might acquire detail and breadth. For parents, a death's when the children leave home. The washer rhythmically pounds for several rotations, then halts to a buzzing alarm; it's out of balance. I am thirsty. Gail would die, my fantasy too, each making room for another.
There's an endless list of patients hoping for my care; I'd tend to them in turn. I'm filled with the murky, agitated memories of so many deaths, circulating with the muddied images of the countless deaths to come. In a handful of years, like a toddler's sleep, the children will leave home. I lick my lips and taste a faint trickle of my own blood -- I wish I'd pocketed the coconut balm. With the scissors, I cut the scarf's loose coil of thread. I hope I die without any clothes on, forever naked, and turn out the nightlight.
Gail's sluggish pulse echoes her fading breath. My children would be in their beds, undulating between stillness and dreams. I imagine nothing. I stay and feel the strange calm I've only experienced in the dark, attached yet alone with someone about to die -- wakened and rocked by another's endless sleep.
©2008 by Dane Myers
