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Death Doula

When he got home an unfamiliar woman sat in his living room. It had been a rough day — third radiation treatment for cancer. Palliative at this point. They don’t expect a cure. Follow up in a couple days. Just keeping it at bay. Relieving some of the symptoms — the pain in the pelvis, the bleeding, the constipation. But the radiation produces its own symptoms — frequent painful urination. It.saps his energy. He wanted nothing more than to go to bed, get some sleep. Maybe a glass of water first, very thirsty.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m your death doula.”

“How’d you get in?”

“Trade secret.”

She sat in his brown corduroy stuffed armchair looking at him. She wore maroon sweatpants and a matching hoody with a Nike logo near the left shoulder. Her bare feet were tucked in the seat of the chair. Her age was indeterminate, at least mid-40s or 50s, maybe older, a kindly face. A gray baseball hat completed her outfit. Clearly there, plain as day, but he could see the chair upholstery through her, transparent, so she seemed to be there and not there at the same time.

“I’m tired. Need some sleep.”

“Go ahead. I’ll wait for you.”

He walked unsteadily down the hall and collapsed into bed. When he awakened two hours later, he had forgotten all about the death doula. But when he entered the living room, he found her still sitting there. She spoke first.

“This place is a mess. You should tidy it. Bad feng shui.”

“Why don’t you tidy it. You’re supposed to be helping me.”

“I lack substance. I can’t move things around. Only talk.”

“Who are you anyway? What’s your name?”

He took a seat on the couch across from her.

“I’ve been called many things — Mother Mary, Tara, Avalokiteshvara, Fatima, Manāt, Our Lady of Guadalupe, Erda. You can call me anything you like. What would you like to call me?”

“Is Susan OK?”

“Susan. I like Susan…So how are you?”

“I’m weary, tired, ready to go. I hurt. Can’t pee like I used to. Can’t shit. It’s in my bones. Out of control. No stopping it now. I’m done.”

“So other than that…you’re all alone in this house. No visitors?”

“Just the Call-A-Ride lady. I wasn’t a good father.”

“Wait. I hear this all the time. What’s a good father? What do you mean?”

“You know…never went to Parents’ Day. Never took him to Disney World. I hate amusement parks.”

“There’s more to fatherhood than that. You provided him with food and shelter, took him to the doctor, that sort of thing?”

“Well of course, but that’s a pretty low bar?”

“Not at all. Lots of fathers don’t measure up to that.”

“But I didn’t teach him to play golf or tennis or bowling. Never watched football. Don’t understand the game. Didn’t teach him to box or hunt or fish. Didn’t teach him to fit in. How can you find your rung on the social ladder without some skill or another?”

“But you probably read to him when he was little.”

“Sure, but what does reading get you but more reading? There’s no end to reading, but where does it lead? Wasn’t a good husband either.”

“OK, so, wait…what’s a good husband? Think about that before you start throwing the term around. Did you beat her, threaten her, abuse her? Were you unfaithful?”

“None of that but I think I was aloof. Wasn’t open. Didn’t express my feelings. Didn’t bare my soul. Preoccupied. Self-absorbed. Just did what was required.”

“So where is your wife now? Is she alive?”

“Must be. Still paying alimony. Divorced long ago.”

“Maybe you did what you could. Doesn’t sound too bad to me. Nobody’s perfect.”

“Didn’t do much with my career either. It’s over now. Done.”

“Where do you think you fell short?”

“Nothing innovative. No breakthroughs. No disruption, as they say now. Just did my job, went to work, manned my station, showed up.”

“Sounds like you played your part, did what was expected. Civilization depends upon the army of those who show up and do what’s expected. If everyone were disrupting it would be chaos. So, you should feel good about fulfilling your role, completing your assignments, keeping the wheels turning.”

There was a lull in the conversation. Twilight had replaced the glare of day and a warm golden glow filled the room through the west window illuminating the books, some in shelves haphazardly arranged, some on the floor, some read many times, some unread, the stacks of magazines and loose papers, the dusty rose and pale green oriental rug, the end table covered with assorted objects, saucers with crumbs, coffee mug, cell phone, charging cable. The man sat on a velveteen blue couch staring at his hands. Outside, the evening soliloquy of a lone robin amidst the harsh noise of cars carrying the occupants home from work. Finally, he spoke.

“So, what comes next?”

“What do you mean…next?

“You know next. After this is all over.”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you were a spirit of something. That you would have some special knowledge, that you would know the story.”

“Nope.”

“I mean is there a next…or is this it?”

“Oh, this is it for sure. This is reality, right here.”

“No, I mean the future. What happens in the future? After the ticker stops, after the last breath, when it’s all over. What then?”

“The future is a fiction. The past is fiction. All we have is this, right here. This is it.”

“OK, Suzy. Let me put it another way. You’ve been through this with lots of other people. You as much as said so. What happened to them?”

“Don’t know.”

“You don’t get any follow up?”

“No. I’m just a death doula. When we’re done, I move on to the next room.”

“Wait… I think I might be bleeding again. I can feel it in my pants. Be right back.”

He returned after twenty minutes with a shower curtain he spread over the couch before taking a seat.

“So how long have you been doing this…this death doula thing?”

“Don’t know. Seems like forever.”

“I mean how’d you get into it?”

“Can’t remember. Seems like I’ve always been…just this.”

“Why are you dressed like that? Shouldn’t you be wearing a robe or something?”

“This outfit’s comfortable. Robes scare people. I’m not here to scare you.”

“I’m bleeding more. It’s getting heavy.”

“You should call 911. Your phone’s right there.”

“I don’t want to. Been through that a couple times before. Stretcher, ambulance, emergency room, bright lights, loud noise, hospital gown, IV after third try, packs, balloons, catheters in the groin, radiologists, surgeons. I can’t do it again. I want to stay here with you.”

“I can’t stop the bleeding. I’ll go with you to the hospital.”

“No, I want to stay here…right here…with you…I’m getting woozy.”

“Lie down. You should call 911 but I can’t make you.”

“Staying right here, Suzy.” He curled up on the couch.

“OK, then repeat after me, ‘I did the best I could and I’m ready for whatever comes next.’”

“Not sure that’s true. Not sure I did. Not sure I am. I don’t want to be imagining things. Am I imagining you?”

“You don’t have to believe it. Just say it. ‘I did the best I could and I’m ready for whatever comes next.’”

“I did the best I could…ready for whatever comes next.”

“Again. Keep saying it.”

“I did the best I could and I’m ready for whatever comes next. I did the best…ready for whatever comes next. Did the best…ready for whatever comes. Did best…ready for next. Did best…ready for whatever. Did best…ready. G’bye, Suzy. Did…ready…next.”

He closed his eyes and was silent.

Two days later, when no one answered the door the Call-A-Ride lady requested a wellness check. The officers found him lying on his side on a shower curtain which covered the couch. There was a large stain of dried blood on the oriental rug. They couldn’t figure out the shower curtain so made it a coroner’s case. The pathologist read out the autopsy as “massive hemorrhage secondary to advanced metastatic adenocarcinoma. No evidence of foul play.” The rug was ruined but the couch was not damaged and went into the estate sale.

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