My time has finally come. I knew it would, and even though the liver spots on my hands show that I’ve seen my share of years, it all went so fast. What have I done with my life? What have I to show?
They call this place “a home,” but as far as I can see, nobody’s at home here except pills pills pills. We all got our “room,” but in a few days, a man in a brown uniform will box this room up in half an hour. Something for the garbage man, something for the Salvation Army, and something for the crematorium. Half hour into his day and I’ll be an Alzheimer whisper of a memory for my dinner mates, and by then they’ll also have forgotten the awfulness of their pureed chicken sandwich, and be taking another sip.
I can feel it. What’s left of my muscles are pulling as taut as a slow roasted chicken without enough liquid in the pan. I hurt less. I can feel my body clenching and letting go, like so many fists, and so many exhales.
But I am not done. What have I done? I must do one more thing. One more thing. Tomorrow. Her shift is tomorrow morning. I will wake. I will have sunrise with her. I will do one more thing.
I despise this diaper. Urine no longer asks for my guidance or permission. I should have killed myself two years ago with pants on. Exhale.
The dark.
Institutional coffee has the biggest smell. It has to. It’s the only thing it can do to remind you that it’s supposed to be coffee. The halls are full of it, and I must say, this smell is one of the final delights of this place. A dense plastic mug and a thin plastic throw away lid on it will be here soon. This moment is better than the arrival.
My Synthroid and Prilosec. She’ll be bringing it in soon. Sasha. Sasha. How wild her mother must have been to name her that. I love that she’ll sit for a moment. She’s not supposed to, but she will. I like a competent rebellion.
Here she is. She wears her hair pulled back so tight. Skin that coulda been painted on. What a wonder. What a vision.
“Good morning, Mr. Jake,” she beams, and pulls open the blinds.
“It is a good morning, Ms. Sasha, isn’t it?”
“Mmmhmmm. It’s just about time.”
“Best seats in the house.”
“You think you get your meds first because you’re a good dancer?”
“I was certain it was that. Please, sit.”
“Imma just close this door.” She makes a small pirouette two steps to the door, and presses it closed so slowly there isn’t a click. A vision.
The sky has changed. We’re in purples and pinks.
“What have you got for me, my dear?”
“Well, good sir, here we have a lovely 15 year highland single malt.”
“It looks like Cutty Sark to me, but I’ll play it your way.” She pours the tiny bottle into my mug and places it in my hand, holding mine in hers to make sure I have it in grasp. A surge of what love used to feel like rolls up my arm. The first crack of blood orange appears on the horizon.
We both look towards it. I keep my head still, but shift my eyes towards her. There is a tear in the corner of her eye that hasn’t yet fallen. My eyes to the sun. To her. An absolute vision.
“Well, that was a good one.” she says quietly, shifting her eyes to meet mine.
“Yes it was, my dear. Yes it was.” I hold my breath. “Sasha…” and I open my hand to her. My palms are so soft anymore. There’s no strength or callus. She places hers into mine. “Sasha, I’m going soon.”
“I know. I can see it coming, too.”
“It’s ok, you know.” She nods. She knows. She’s not scared that death comes around here. “But, you know what’s not ok?”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“Say it.”
“You’ve got to leave him, kiddo. You are a sunflower. And he’s a goddamn rat gnawing at you. You’ve got to get free, so you can live.” Now a tear can no longer hold its post in the corner of her eye. It sprints down her cheek. She nods. She knows. “I don’t usually tell people what to do with themselves, but I don’t have much time to mess around.”
I take a long haul off the terrible coffee. Focus on the scotch.
“You’re right. I know.”
“I’ve wasted my time. Don’t waste yours. Now. Don’t end up here like this. Die a better death. Live a better life.”
She forces a smile.
“As my final wish in life, I want you to promise, that you’ll not waste your life. Promise that you’ll leave him today. And for Christsake make a good life for yourself, full of what makes you happiest.”
“I’m going to miss you.”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
We hold each other’s gaze. How long?
I can feel my body clenching and letting go, like so many fists, and so many exhales.
The dark. A vision.
Gratitude and credit for photos and help with medical references goes to my dear cousin Sarah Rasnick-Weissend.