I am trying to go through every facet of my memories to see if I can locate a time in which I stood over someone I knew who was so close to death.
I think I am glad I cannot think of any right now.
When Maria rapped on the screen door yesterday afternoon, I somehow knew by the hollow sound it made that it could not be good. I barely heard it, so was not surprised that Ken did not, even though he was closer to the door. I gestured towards the sound and Ken went and answered.
The boys were just finishing up their homework in the other room. I quickly slipped out on the porch with Ken to talk to Maria, who was having a hard time relaying the information to us. It struck me as so odd only because up until this point I had only seen her frustrated with Mike’s health. I had seen her help him, but I also had a sense that she was not happy taking care of this man who didn’t bother taking care of himself.
Mike’s drinking had only gotten worse in the past 6 months. Long gone were the days of hearing his raspy, Harvey Firestein voice yelling out, “Hello, Gina!” when I would arrive home from work. You would wave and watch him riding his bike all around the neighborhood, butting his nose into everyone’s business. Although it could be considered rude of him, in many ways it was a comfort. He knew what everyone was up to. He knew who was sick, who was new, who was in trouble, who had recently bought a couch, and most of all, he knew when things were not right.
Even though on more occasions than I like to admit right now, I would purposely avoid his conversations, I will miss them. That man could talk! He would come to the door to give me some minor nugget of information and would then chat with me for a good hour before I would be allowed to go back to my life. He was sweet, and funny, but clearly lonely. I would be too if I lived alone for that long. It is no wonder he was friendly with everyone in our area.
Mike smoked too much. You knew when he was outside because the familiar smell of his cigarettes would fill the neighborhood. This was outside, so I can only begin to describe the odor that permeated his walls in his home. I had been on maternity leave right after Dax was born and was taking Bobby to daycare one morning when I heard him call out to me. He invited me in to see where he had put a small end table I gave him.
With Dax securely in the front pack, we cautiously entered his home. I was immediately taken aback with the thickness of the stale smoke that may very well have inhabited this space since the 60’s. I was grateful that Dax’s infant face was pressed up against my chest, hopefully shielding him from the cancerous fumes that threatened his baby form.
Yet with all of this, I was happy at how much joy this small table brought him. I had loved the table, and had wondered if I should part with it. So when I put it in our Bermuda Triangle in the front yard, and then saw Mike snatch it up, I was happy to see it go to someone who would love it as much as I did.
When we went to visit Mike a couple weeks ago, his face sunken in from the effects of his illness. He was pale and had sores over the parts of his body I could see. Yet his face lit up when he realized who I was. He even pronounced my name correct, something he had been working on for the 13 years I had known him.
He instantly complimented my hair, and told me it brought out my eyes. He said that I looked amazing and he said he could tell how hard I had been working. I was surprised at how much he noticed. Dax was beside me, and clearly uncomfortable, but I kept him there longer than I would have normally, mostly because from what I had been told, this animated Mike was not what had been present recently. He had mostly been confused due to the Alzheimer’s and when you couple that with the alcohol killing off the remaining good brain cells, his mind wasn’t always there.
I told him he had to take care of himself. I told him I expected him to be riding the neighborhood soon so that I could ride with him. That seemed to make him very happy. When I walked out of the room, I wondered if I would see him again.
When I stood outside his room in the ICU at Pacific Hospital with Bobby, I could see his sleeping body through the windows. The pressure from the breathing machine making his cheeks flutter uncontrollably and the lack of any real natural rising and falling of his chest. In fact, his body looked almost absent underneath the blankets keeping him warm in the chilly hospital.
The only thing I took comfort in is that he seemed to have much more color in his face. The visible sores now gone and if you didn’t know any better, you might even think this was just a man recovering from surgery and would be awake in a couple hours.
Sadly, I knew better.
The machines giving him this life were the only things that still were fighting for him in that room. The boys each said their goodbyes, quickly and almost silently before Ken shuffled them into the ICU waiting room. I was left alone with him and his nurse. I have to say, I was thankful for the nurse. I honestly didn’t know what to say.
The nurse asked me about Mike. She was so impressed with the fact that even though Mike didn’t have much family, his family seemed to be the neighbors who had come to visit him. She mentioned Maria and Tony, and was so pleased that we had come, also.
I asked if he was comfortable, and marveled aloud about how much color he had. She was surprised, but perhaps this was because this man was not long for this world, and it seemed a shame for him to look better when internally he was not.
Ken came in and I listened to him speak to Mike briefly. I wondered if I heard a slight break in his tone, but didn’t see any other evidence of the possibility of tears.
I said goodbye to Mike. I wished him safe travels wherever he was headed. We then left the ICU and I gathered my children and went home.
Mike’s sister will be here this afternoon. She lives in Florida and will be at his side when the machines are turned off today.
When we were driving to the hospital, we were caught in horrid traffic. I was frustrated, but mostly because I had moved over to the car pool lane which proved to be slower, which only meant I was stuck. The frustration subsided when I saw the source of the congestion. An accident was up ahead, which had caused a blocking of the carpool and subsequent lane. As I passed the accident scene, I looked over to see the sheet. The helmet was nearby, and I could see the black boots peeking out from under the cloth.
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The gravity of life will hit you sometimes, even in the most cliché of ways.
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