The Last Act

The Last Act

A frigid December morning, the sun was exceptionally bright outside my window, yet my eyes and mind are still closed to what the day would bring. I had a little too much to drink last night, my body refused to move. Just need ten more minutes, hospice will be pulling up to deliver the hospital bed for the gentleman next door. I promised I would help him get situated. I said aloud, get up, get up, Jesus help me, I am not ready. Every waking moment it starts, rolling, reeling, he is dying, Did the alcohol really help me cope? Forget he is dying, forget today could be his last day, forget he can’t walk. Praying for a calm, pain free day is ultimately washed away with the certainty he is dying. Please not today, we all die, I need more time.

We have been neighbors for nearly a year. I mow his grass and check his mail. I cook what he does not eat and brew coffee, “more coffee he says” as I watch it lose steam. Lost in my thoughts, walking next door, the mundane tasks, the fake laughs, whirling through my mind like a crisp breeze I shivered as I opened the door. His low sinuous breathing, rattled cough, bone ridden torso, he still had the courage to smile but the light in his eyes is fading. He has been living in his big brown chair for months now, his crooked body permanently tilted to the left as the chair welded the same position. He did not want to give up his seat of serenity, as it cradled him as if it were a womb of sorts. He reassured me that day, the conviction in his low tattered barely legible voice “this hospital bed will be the f*** death of me.” He still had his wits about him, he was in his right mind.

Thanksgiving was two weeks ago. Alone in the kitchen alone in my mind, I cried the entire time I made dinner; making his favorites, blueberry pie and Moms sausage stuffing. Clean the turkey, flip the turkey cook the turkey. Inserting more love, more care in my preparations, my mind knew and yet my heart rejected the thought, would this be his last Thanksgiving? He had lost his voice over a week ago, scribbled notes lay around his side table fused with coffee stains. Pointing, groaning, a remanence of a chuckle, he handed me the note, it read, more pie.

After dinner we sat holding hands. I realized the full plate of food became another item collaged on his side table, he started talking. He started talking! His confidence building as he formulated thoughts, from brain to mouth, by the grace of God, he shared himself. You see, he has always been a talker. Each plot thickens with twists and turns. I often asked at times, is this a true story? Looking back, I regret I did not record our conversation that day or all the days I was in his presence. I was entranced in childish dreams and bamboozled by the thoughts of immortality. I still hear his voice. He spoke aloud what his soul had ransomed. His life would be the price. His existence coiling around me like a hungry snake. Spit it out, words of tangled truths and dandelion dust, his heart wept allowed. He felt unloved by his Father, learned courage from his Mother and embraced the Trinity of his faith. Once whittling a stick with a pocketknife, he got from his grandfather, he paused and looked up, “you know my Grandmother was a grade school teacher?” His paper route, driving for the first time. His first – his first- never discussing his last…

He painted beautiful pictures with his words. I visualized the love he has for his parents and siblings. He told me how each one touched his life. The love and pride he has for his children. The unknown of what his grandchildren will become. His inherent belief in God. He never said he wished he could go back, he wished he could take back. He felt love and gave love the only way he knew how. Those words are etched in my mind. “The only way I knew how.” I listened for hours, his confessions overflowing, cascading into temperamental realizations soaked in tears and laughter. This man lived a life, his life. He was creative in his writing and artistic in his woodwork and paintings. He was married four times, said he never got it quite right in the marriage department. In a country named Vietnam, he fought waist deep through bloodied rice patty fields scorched by the jungle overflow of agent orange. Reenlisted and made a career in the United States Air Force, while raising two children alone. He attributes his blessings to God and a good therapist he frequented in the mid 1970’s. “Do some soul searching and don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

I reminded myself often, listen, remember, listen; I put up his little Christmas tree and lights around the newly built deck out front. Another daunting task, I was trying to normalize the torment, breathing in his air. One more Christmas please, while I was slowly watching him die. He asked for his black book of poems and short stories. Save them for my grandchildren he said. He read two of his Christmas stories. It was like I was hearing them for the first time, caught up in melancholy and brandy. The Gift of the Magi and A-B-C. “One day soon” he said, “everyone will be reading my stories.” I always believed him. Yes, yes, they will. I felt special and honored to be with him, to know him. A true Thanksgiving it was. All the joy he brought me that day, melted away as daylight danced with the darkness. I walked home with a heavy heart unable to shake the grief I was feeling and the wrath I knew was coming.

The hospital bed has arrived. I got the bed into place, he struggled to stand, he struggled to lay, that damn metallic robotic bed. Arms up, grunting, sides up, can I go back, I need to sit straight up…clickety clack, he can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. His big brown chair looked so lonely. My heart was sinking. I was in a hurry to leave. Day after day, the decline, the how will I live without him and how much more suffering can he take. I was caught in a web bouncing between life and death hope and hell. Stop making it about you, I told myself often that afternoon. I need a break; I need a drink. I am mentally not prepared. I turned to look at him, this man, so strong my entire life lay brittle and broken, he waved goodbye to me with a smile on his face. That was the last time I saw my Dad alive. That evening, he died holding my Son’s hand.

The second coldest day of my life was the day of his funeral. It was a long ride to his final resting place. At the cemetery gates we were confronted with a flag at half-staff and thousands of white headstones laid with evergreen wreaths. I was drenched in my loneliness and suddenly over-come as we became a part of the departed. The pristine stars and stripes cloaked on his forever bed. The piercing wind, my breath frolicked outside of my body. I tried to conceal each belting cry only to watch the steam swirl above my head like a tornado. The bagpipes playing the death lullaby. Full military honors, gunshots bursting, counting them, one… boom, two, boom as they ricochet right back. BOOM! I jump at every shot pretending he is holding my hand as I held my brother tight, tighter, snot dripping from our noses mixed with salty tears. Row six, row six he will be waiting in row six. The door to his life slammed shut and locked. I don’t want to say goodbye only hello how are you, hello, I love you. Hello, can you hear me? Hello, I will remember you.

Just after my Father was diagnosed with cancer, directly linked to agent orange, he submitted his stories in hopes of getting published. He moved shortly after that. As you know, God put him right next door to me. His acceptance letter, letters, lost in the mail, lost to him, lost for a moment in time. We received the offer to publish his stories today. I only wish he could see the royalty check. With high esteem and gratitude for all the breaths he took, I leave you with a small portion of his legacy, the last act. Amber D. Coughlin February 24, 2021