Читать книгу Do Not Resuscitate - Charley Brindley - Страница 2

March 23, 2019

I brushed my hand down my face, trying to wipe away the fog that shrouded my mind. As I did, my fingers caught on something stuck in my nose.

What the hell? Where am I?

The tube felt like it was halfway down my throat. I tried to pull it out, but it was taped to my face. My brain was stiff, drifting away. I tried to concentrate.

Still nothing but muddled images. Not a thing I can lock onto. Eyes open, but hazy view of…what? Inside of a cloud. Lots of white stuff and shiny metal. Tubes. Beeping noise.

Hospital. Oh, yeah. That doctor who looked like she was about twelve years old. Way too grim for a kid.

I felt as if I’d been crushed and reconstituted into a piece of crap. Not much pain; just a mind full of wet cement.

They’ve got me doped up on painkillers.

Just as well.

Hope they remember, ‘Do Not Resuscitate.’ I don’t want to hang onto a life of tubes, respirators, and beeping monitors.

A soft, rustling sound.

Man in blue, pretty powder blue. Another doctor? Good, not a teenager. Please don’t give me any bullshit about a few more years of so-called life. I’m almost eighty. A few more years of misery and hardships for Caitlion isn’t what I want. Just snip these tubes and let me go.

The man in blue pulled a chair to the side of my bed, sat, and smiled.

Not taking vitals, not looking sternly at monitors, no stethoscope draped around his neck, not shoving needles into me; just smiling. Big guy, maybe 6-3, lean, light beard, brown hair, blue eyes, dark blue, like that first shade of night.

“What are you so…” Ugh, dry throat. I swallowed. “Chipper about?”

“It’s almost time.”

His voice was smooth, not as masculine as I expected. It was more like Mom’s voice, from when I was a kid. Soft, pleasant, making me feel like everything would be all right.

Another sound. The door swishing open. I turned my head on the pillow to see the nurse.

She checked the monitors. I wondered why the doctor had no interest in the readings.

She tapped a red fingernail on a digital display, then smiled at me, ignoring the doctor.

I tried to return her pleasantness. She was pretty and young, twenty-something. Her complexion was like the soft brown of summer wheat.

“You doing okay, Mr. Brindley?”

I nodded.

“They’re going to bring you some nice mush and prune juice. Then the doctor will be in to talk to you.”

When I tried to raise my right hand to point to the doctor sitting beside me, it was weighted down by a tube and two needles inserted into the back of my hand.

She was gone before I could say anything.

“You should probably ask to see your family,” the doctor said.

“That bad, huh?”

He nodded. “We have to get started.”

“If I know my great-granddaughter, she’s around here somewhere.”

“Sleeping in a chair, out in the waiting room.”

“Can you get her?”

“No, you need to push your button.”

“Where is it?”

“Right beside your hand.”

“Oh, okay.”

I fumbled with the button, then pressed it. My nurse hurried in.

“What can I get for you, sweetie?” She put a soft hand on my shoulder. I liked her. She was kind, no nonsense.

“Is Caitlion out there?”

She nodded. “I expect so. She’s here more than I am.”

Poor kid. Is she going to be all right? I hope she’s prepared. I held on until she turned eighteen. I didn’t want other people making her decisions. It’d been just her and me since she was two, when her mom ran away with a trucker from Wichita. In a few weeks, Caitlion will be well-off. Alone, but she can go to university, or to Europe…whatever she wants to do. I know it will be a rough month or so.

“Papa.”

There she was, my beautiful girl, taking my hand and leaning down for a kiss on the cheek. Her name, Caitlion, like Kate Lion, came from her mother’s slurred speech when she was high on fentanyl and heroin. She was trying to say, “Tavion,” whatever that means.

“Hey, baby.”

She wore jeans with manufactured holes and a pink tee saying, ‘5 out of 4 people struggle with math.’

That made me smile.

“You’re looking good today,” she said.

Long auburn hair. Her brown eyes were deep, with a hint of mystery about them, as if they hid a special secret. She’d tinted the last six inches of her hair in a light honey blonde, in what I think she called babylights. And always, the beautiful smile.

I blew a puff of air past the tube in my nose and waved my hand, shooing away her words. “I think…this is it, sweetheart.”

“No, Papa. It’s not.” She took my hand, being careful of the IV.