Goodbye

He appeared to be in peace. With his body lifeless, yet not completely limp, he seemed more in a near-comatose state than on the other side. If it wasn't for the absence of the periodic snores, and the rise and fall of his chest, one might have mistaken him to be asleep.

But then he was asleep.

A better kind of sleep. In which he wasn't in pain. His lips, barely parted to reveal a glimpse of crooked teeth, formed a narrow slit to resemble a half-grin. The bridge of his nose curved to construct an arch, which held a convivial presence of it's own. The pallid tone of his skin, now more pasty than the ashen gray of before. His eyelids, though shut closed, emitted a vibe of tranquility which had eluded the brown irises behind. In fact, he looked more alive than he had for the past four months.

But he wasn't alive.


                                                                                   

. . .

   
       

A dismal air of sorrow hung about, contagious, spreading into the unknown.  The melancholic wave that had up till now been confined to this room, was swelling past the loosely hinged door. People draped in white, entered and left, one by one.

While I remained hunched, sunk into the couch beside the bed.

My eyes drifted all across the room, re-familiarising myself with the surroundings. The yellow-ish bulb glowed above, doing no favours to stem the dolor. The paint on the walls had chipped and flaked; Patches of cemented bricks were visible through the cracks. The air conditioner hummed in the distance, it's faint green light still penetrating through the dimly lit room. Syringes and IV bags, rubber gloves and pills, lay cluttered on a coffee table in the corner. The catheter suction machine hid in a corner against the now unhooked oxygen cylinder. The room seemed like it had for the past seventy six days. The only thing that gave away was the absence of the rasping breath.

I sat waiting for reality to catch on ,mimicking the restless movements the occupant of the bed used to indulge in. A flurried wiggle of the toes, accompanied by twiddling of the thumbs, and then the final act to slow down the impending atrophy - A feeble attempt to lift the arms towards the face towering over.


                                                                                         

. . .

But there isn't anyone to look up towards to. Only shadows, jumping into and out of my vision. I crane my neck to shift my gaze towards the double glazed windows.

Rain pelts across the glass. Screaming to be let inside, it batters into the transparent rectangle separating it from what lies behind it. Trees sway ferociously in the backdrop, as if in the middle of a tango frenzy. Water-drops spray upon the drooping leaves, urging them to give in and tear down. Although it's approaching towards noon, the darkness outside suggests anything but. Rain would have been apt for a day like this, but not torrential rain.
It would've been slow and soft, with the sun peeking out from behind the clouds. The leaves would've drooped,but not torn down with the the rest of the trees. Puddles of water would've lined the roads, but not flooded them. The windows would've been opened, but not closed immediately to avoid the carpet from getting wet. It would've been grievous and mournful, but serene at the same time.

                                                                                         
                                                                                     

. . .

I was still slouched by the window when I realized that I didn't feel sad. Yes, there were tears brimming at the back of my eyes, but they weren't going to be let loose today. Perhaps some other time.  Perhaps on a day when the sky was blue, when it was raining down soft and slow. Perhaps on a day when the raindrops bathed in the sunlight that filtered through them.
But not today.


                                                                                   

. . .

A bitter-sweet feeling cloaks me as I look over to him. He is covered with a floral cloth, probably an old bed sheet, and below it, I'm sure, is the blue nightshirt he was in last night. But it's the flowery pattern on the sheet above that makes me doubt the reality of the situation. I have hallucinated before, on isolated occasions, but never have they felt this... real.
That this may not be real, breaks me into weird laughter. My hands splay immediately towards my mouth, hoping no one saw. It is only then that I realise that I'm alone in the room with him. The silence which was awkward a while ago has transitioned into one that is now peaceful.
The silence sends me to a room very similar like the one I'm in right now, except that there is no medical apparatus present in the room. Instead of an oxygen tank, there stands a coat hanger. Instead of a suction machine, there lies a chest of drawers. Instead of a motionless body on the bed, somebody is sitting on the very couch I was just in.

Sunlight streams in from the window, immersing the room in shades of golden. His nearly bald head casts a shadow on the wall, the paint not yet chipped . His grey hair, or what's left of them, shine in the glow - making the whole situation look, for some unknown reason, downright hilarious. He has the widest smile I've ever known, etched on his face, and his happiness is contagious. I try to counter with an equally warm smile, but fail to do so.

" Are you alright?'', He inquires, concern seeping through his voice.
"Umm...yes. Why wouldn't I be."
"Well you sort of look like a constipated chicken. That's all."
He chuckles for a while, and keeps smiling towards the distant sun.
Then his expression turns serious.
"Are you afraid of dying?"
Unsure whether I heard it correct, I stutter to a reply.
"S-s-sorry?"
"Are you afraid of dying? Something that you don't like about it?"
"Ehh...It's dying...What's there to like?"
"OK. Let me rephrase that. Is there something that particularly displeases you about the whole thing?"
"Well...Just that there isn't any dignity."
"What?"
"There isn't any dignity in dying."
With the smile magically re-appearing on his face, he beams towards me and says.
"There's no shame either." 


                                           
                             

. . .

Death either visits your doorstep on a whim, appearing out of nowhere, waking you up in the most cruel of surprises. Or it leaves a letter first, not exactly telling when she will drop by, but vaguely implying about it.
Which ever way she chooses, she always comes with a parcel of grief, sorrow, and pain, tied with confusion.
You try to prepare yourself. Get ready for her arrival. You go through your mind, assessing what to do, what not to and how to react when that doorbell rings. But that's it. That's all you can do. Try to prepare. Try. And fail to do so. Because when that ring echoes through your ears, the confusion is all the same.

A wavering mind.
A forgetful act.
A chronic persistence.
A lingering pain.

A cannula.
A ventilator.
A tracheostomy tube.
A forced breath.

The signs are there. There to tell us what to expect.
But we don't.
We don't.


                                                                                   

  . . .

I was still in the same position on the couch, when the sight of a stretcher being wheeled into the room brought me back to reality. I finally got up, hid behind my Mum, and stared towards the ceiling to avoid looking anyone in the eye. He was lifted onto the stretcher, and then laid on the cushioned surface. They came, they saw, they cried, they left. And when his hand was held for long enough, and the tears had been streamed, he was carried out of the room, into the ambulance, towards the hospital morgue, with the floral sheet now covering his face.