The Memoirs of Lewis Mallory

The Memoirs of Lewis Malory
Kyler

A frail old man sits on what he knows will be his death bed. He watches the sun set, both outside his window and inside his heart. So many doctors have been to see him, each with hopeful half-smiles and terribly cold eyes. Each gave him the same fearsome news, there was no more hope. In only a few days, maybe even less, he had been told, the cancer in his brain would compromise his breathing. And so today he has given himself the task of writing a letter of goodbye, something that can capture his soul, his essence in a glass box for others to read long after…a tear rolls down his cheek. Long after he has gone.
He knows everyone dies, that everything has a time when it will pass, but it was never real before…he almost smiled; before it was really him, really dying.
He shivered. Hospitals were cold places, much more than physically. He wondered if anyone had ever died in this room before. He felt oddly detached, like he was watching this on the Lifetime channel, his decline compressed into one episode, his death an hour of entertainment for the civilized world. Civilized? What civilized person could laugh at another’s demise? Soap operas had changed everything, death more final and satisfying than a coma. A small smile creased his face. If he went into a coma instead of flat-lining, he supposed he could last a few more episodes, maybe gain a fan-base.
But there would be no more episodes, no coma, no fans. He was guaranteed no more than a few days. Then death would sweep down on his black stallion, silver sickle in hand, to take his soul; to where, the old man knew not. He thought he had lived a good life, a worthy life, but there were so many things he had done wrong, even today.
Should he have thanked the doctors, given his best to them for diagnosing his mortal illness? He owed them that, he knew he did. He looked around, narrowing his eyes as he did so. He hated all of this. Everything the white nightgown that wrapped around his body implied about his health, this bed, and he especially hated the beeping of his heart on the machines connected to his body. It echoed inside his head, pounding in the nail of his unavoidable death even further. His head throbbed and he clenched his fist.
A female nurse entered the room. He had the decency to hide his anger, though it now coursed through his veins. She quietly checked his morphine and the other fluid-filled bags attached to his hand by a rubber tube. She was so polite; he loathed her for it. How dare she be so polite and calm when he was dying right here beside her! He wanted to swing out at her, to make her feel some tiny fraction of the pain that his soul was going through. He began to lift his right arm, but that effort alone was exhausting, so he let his arm drop. His eyes pushed shut as depression swept his body. He couldn’t even be angry anymore, his anger was useless. He was useless.
“Nurse,” He breathed, ashamed at how scared his voice sounded but unable to help it, “I can’t lift my arm,” he stuttered.
He caught a flash of sorrow that she was unable to conceal from him, and then her face cleared of all emotion, like the heartless doctors before her.
“Can you feel this?” She asked as she grabbed his right hand.
He watched her squeeze his hand, watched her nails dig into his flesh, but felt nothing. His arm was already gone.
“No; nothing,“ His tone was somber. Terror drowned out logic, his mind paralyzed by fear. His cardio-vascular system was already beginning to narrow down what it would support as his heart grew weaker. His extremities would be the first to go, then his more necessary organs and systems.
The nurse went through a short check of his other extremities. She hurried away, like she might catch what the old man had. She closed the door when she exited, and the sound seemed like it echoed, the room getting smaller by the minute. A thought suddenly hit him: He was going to die alone.
He had all but abandoned his family, never forgiving them for things that seemed small now. He had a son and daughter, both of which he had been proud of before they had disappointed him. He had raised his children to be proud, as he was, and when he couldn’t forgive them, they couldn’t forgive him.
His daughter, Naomi, had married a man that he hadn’t approved of. Her father knew what was best for her, and she had tried to fill that position with someone else. The conversation played in his head:
“I’ve seen how he treats you; you’re better than that”
“Look, dad, we’re happy together, and I’m going to marry him. You’ll just have to deal with him if you want to see me”
“Naomi, you have got to choose, your father who loves you very much, or your fiancée who treats you like dirt?” The question oozed sarcasm.
“Dad, I’m a grown woman, I can make my own decisions!” She yelled
“So be it!” He yelled back
She threw a furious glare and stomped away from him, both sporting wounded pride. He had called her a few times after that to check on her, but her answers were always short ‘yes’s’ and ‘no’s’, and something always came up on holidays. It had never been the same after their fight.
His wife had been a beautiful person. She had to be to love a person as stubborn as himself, and to make him get along with his headstrong kids when they didn’t listen to him. She had always been able to make the family a cohesive body. She wasn’t around anymore. His wife worked late, they had both worked hard for their kids. The paramedics said it looked like she had fallen asleep at the wheel. Her car had run off the road and spun before the tires caught and the car rolled. No one could say for sure, but one of the faceless ambulance workers had told him that she probably died instantly. He wanted so badly to believe it, and he almost did. After that, things within their family got worse. Everyone was emotional hurt by the tragedy.
His son, Oliver, began having troubles. Track, basketball, football-Oliver did it all on natural ability and excelled. He had gotten a full-ride scholarship to the University of Iowa and left with both his parents’ blessings. His mother’s death hit him hard. Slowly his grades began deteriorating and he started to miss practice before he was checked into rehab. Cocaine. He had been found in his dorm passed out and cold, with barely a pulse. When the paramedics called the old man’s house and told him his son was in the emergency room and not in good shape, he had begun to rush to the door. When he heard that Oliver’s body was filled with drugs, he had slowed, and then stopped. He told Naomi to go on ahead and call him if anything bad happened.
Neither of his kids had understood, they all thought that he didn’t care about Oliver. It had never been that. He couldn’t bear to see his son in that condition, broken and weak, knowing that he had chosen to give up his greatest gift for something so shallow. It had been six years since his son had pulled through in the hospital that night, but he was still in and out of rehab every few months. He couldn’t stand this weakness so embedded in his son, and hated being around him.
The whole family had been through so much pain. Lewis sighed. Maybe he should have told them about his sickness, but he was afraid they wouldn’t come. He couldn’t bare the thought of his only son and daughter not coming to visit his death bed. He had been so cruel and headstrong over the years, not talking to them. The only way he could be sure they didn’t refuse him was by not telling them. Lewis blinked his tears away and cleared his throat.
What was an old man to do? It was too late to repair the relationships he had ruined. The thought of his death filled up his body with lead. Lewis barely had the strength to blink his eyes. The phone rang. Lewis tried to reach for it, like he would have any other day of his life, but these days were not common days. His arm was too heavy to move, even an inch. Even his fingers were lead; he couldn’t move them. His chest began to get heavier, and his breaths came in short gasps. The pressure on top of his chest was too much, he realized, to breathe.
His mind ordered his body to breathe, to fight, to move even an inch, but Lewis’ body is outside his control. The struggle isn’t worth it. His kids hate him; he has no job, no friends, and few possessions. What man wouldn’t want to die in these situations?
The door flies open and Lewis sees Oliver and Naomi rush in. They rush to him. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. They came to him. A tear runs down his cheek.
“We know,” Naomi says, as Oliver nods, “We’re here, we forgive you. Lewis breathes out what he knows is his last breath and smiles. His face relaxes, and his head sinks into the softness of the hospital bed. His last sight on Earth is of his daughter, her face shining with tears, looking so much like his former wife. He would see her soon.
He hears a whisper as the world darkens. “We love you Dad”.