chaplain was there at ten ‘til six that morning. He was out in the hall talking to the doctor so I went in and stood beside Michael’s bed and held his hand. I leaned down to whisper in his ear.
“You can do this, Michael. They’re going to turn off the machine. All you have to do is breathe. I’ll be right here with you, okay? When I squeeze your hand, you breathe in. And when I let it go, you breathe out. That’s all you need to do. I’m right here to help you.”
The doctor came in with a couple of people in suits. My face was scrunched up tight trying to keep everything inside. I wanted to stop them, yell at them, ask what the hell gave them the right. But I was only a nurse’s aide and they were doctors and lawyers and a chaplain and all that. I thought I might throw up again.
I started squeezing Michael’s hand -- squeeze, release, squeeze, release -- in time to the sound of the ventilator, letting Michael feel the rhythm. The chaplain said a prayer, which I didn’t like either, because it was all about Michael going on to God. He shouldn’t make Michael think that’s what he was supposed to do. So I just kept squeezing, hoping Michael could tell that he didn’t have to go.
The doctor looked at his watch and then turned off the machine. I kept squeezing.
Sharon took the tube out of Michael’s throat. The doctor stared at his watch.
It seemed like a long time that Michael didn’t breathe. I was squeezing his hand so hard, squeezing and squeezing. And just when I thought he was gone, he took a soft breath.
Everyone stood frozen and waited. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release, breath.
Michael was breathing on his own.
~2~
Aunt Dee always told me that I was like an Oreo cookie. I had my dad on the outside and my mom on the inside.
My dad was a famous boxer. He was a heavyweight, big and mean-looking, and he won a lot of fights. There’s a box in the attic with his trophies in it.
My mom was small, blonde, and real pretty. Aunt Dee said she had a tender heart. She fell in love with my dad and that was that.
My mom loved my dad so much that when he died in the ring, it broke her heart. She got cancer a few months later and passed real quick. Aunt Dee said sometimes cancer is the way a broken heart ‘manifests.’ It’s the body’s way of doing what the heart wants when the heart doesn’t want to keep living anymore.
I was five the year they died and I came to live with Aunt Dee. I remember them, but sometimes it’s hard to know what are real memories and what are things I made up from the photos in the photo album.
I look a lot like my dad’s pictures, except my nose was never broken. I’m as big as a house like he was and I scare people sometimes. Like if I’m walking in town at night, just thinking about things, and I get too close to someone, they look all nervous.
I could never box like Dad did. I don’t like the idea of hurting anyone. It would make me feel real bad because life is hard enough, you know?
~3~
I guess it was a problem for the hospital that Michael didn’t die, because there was no one to pay his bills. The director moved him to the smallest room on our floor, one we used for storage. There were no windows.
I found some nice posters of winter scenes at a Hallmark store and I put them on the wall.
“Look, you can pretend this is your view,” I told Michael. “It’s going to be Thanksgiving soon, and maybe we’ll get snow. I like snow.”
When I got off work at seven a.m., I went to Michael’s room and stayed with him until after lunch, when I had to go home and sleep. It was winter anyway, so there wasn’t any work to do in the garden. And it bothered me that no one came to see Michael. I read to him. I like things that make me laugh, and so I read him the funny pages and a couple of joke books I had. I held his hand because the nursing book told me to, and Sharon said it might be comforting to him.
I took my time washing Michael. There’s a way you
“You can do this, Michael. They’re going to turn off the machine. All you have to do is breathe. I’ll be right here with you, okay? When I squeeze your hand, you breathe in. And when I let it go, you breathe out. That’s all you need to do. I’m right here to help you.”
The doctor came in with a couple of people in suits. My face was scrunched up tight trying to keep everything inside. I wanted to stop them, yell at them, ask what the hell gave them the right. But I was only a nurse’s aide and they were doctors and lawyers and a chaplain and all that. I thought I might throw up again.
I started squeezing Michael’s hand -- squeeze, release, squeeze, release -- in time to the sound of the ventilator, letting Michael feel the rhythm. The chaplain said a prayer, which I didn’t like either, because it was all about Michael going on to God. He shouldn’t make Michael think that’s what he was supposed to do. So I just kept squeezing, hoping Michael could tell that he didn’t have to go.
The doctor looked at his watch and then turned off the machine. I kept squeezing.
Sharon took the tube out of Michael’s throat. The doctor stared at his watch.
It seemed like a long time that Michael didn’t breathe. I was squeezing his hand so hard, squeezing and squeezing. And just when I thought he was gone, he took a soft breath.
Everyone stood frozen and waited. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release, breath.
Michael was breathing on his own.
~2~
Aunt Dee always told me that I was like an Oreo cookie. I had my dad on the outside and my mom on the inside.
My dad was a famous boxer. He was a heavyweight, big and mean-looking, and he won a lot of fights. There’s a box in the attic with his trophies in it.
My mom was small, blonde, and real pretty. Aunt Dee said she had a tender heart. She fell in love with my dad and that was that.
My mom loved my dad so much that when he died in the ring, it broke her heart. She got cancer a few months later and passed real quick. Aunt Dee said sometimes cancer is the way a broken heart ‘manifests.’ It’s the body’s way of doing what the heart wants when the heart doesn’t want to keep living anymore.
I was five the year they died and I came to live with Aunt Dee. I remember them, but sometimes it’s hard to know what are real memories and what are things I made up from the photos in the photo album.
I look a lot like my dad’s pictures, except my nose was never broken. I’m as big as a house like he was and I scare people sometimes. Like if I’m walking in town at night, just thinking about things, and I get too close to someone, they look all nervous.
I could never box like Dad did. I don’t like the idea of hurting anyone. It would make me feel real bad because life is hard enough, you know?
~3~
I guess it was a problem for the hospital that Michael didn’t die, because there was no one to pay his bills. The director moved him to the smallest room on our floor, one we used for storage. There were no windows.
I found some nice posters of winter scenes at a Hallmark store and I put them on the wall.
“Look, you can pretend this is your view,” I told Michael. “It’s going to be Thanksgiving soon, and maybe we’ll get snow. I like snow.”
When I got off work at seven a.m., I went to Michael’s room and stayed with him until after lunch, when I had to go home and sleep. It was winter anyway, so there wasn’t any work to do in the garden. And it bothered me that no one came to see Michael. I read to him. I like things that make me laugh, and so I read him the funny pages and a couple of joke books I had. I held his hand because the nursing book told me to, and Sharon said it might be comforting to him.
I took my time washing Michael. There’s a way you
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