The room is silent save for the roaring hum of an overtaxed oxygen machine connected to an old man lying sheet covered in the corner of a dimly lit room. One fluorescent bulb above his head provides the only light tonight. The man is surrounded bedside by one son, a grandson, and a daughter-in-law, all of whom sit at the edge of their chairs, leaning forward with hands clasped in front in vigil-like formation. A second son stands at a distance, breathlessly observing, while a third son sleeps soundly one thousand miles away, unaware. They peer intently at a body wracked by eight decades of near non-stop labor, worry and laser-focused concern and love for his family, three of whom sit before him. Watching. Waiting.
The second son, having stepped away for a moment, re-enters the room, quietly nods at the others and raises his hands in front of him, waist high, to signal no need for a chair, no need to disturb. He observes the dying man, pauses and rubs his chin with his right hand while the left is thrust deep in his pocket. His brother, sitting to their father’s left, stands and mutters, “Going for a smoke,” before shuffling wearily out of the room. An hour before, having flown in from Phoenix in hopes of speaking with his dad, the son had spoken plaintively to this dying man, prompting Dad’s roommate, dementia-addled Ralph, to ask, perceptively, “Why are you talking to the dead man?” The nursing home’s floor is silent at 11:50 pm as one hundred elderly residents sleep peacefully in their rooms, tended to by devoted CNAs and the chief nurse, a burly man who slumps in his chair and thumbs thumbs thumbs his way through his phone. All is quiet.
As one brother exits for a smoke—his coping break from sitting hours bedside and staring at his dying dad—the other takes the now-open chair, pulling it closer from underneath so he is in close, very close to his rapidly fading father. The son stares at his father, Dad’s closed eyes now recessed in their sockets and his mouth involuntarily agape. Dad no longer gasps for breath; his arms and legs lie motionless. His son matter-of-factly slides back the sheet and takes his father’s hand. Gently but determined, he tugs at the dying man’s wedding ring.
“Mom wants the ring now,” he tells the others, but the near-dead man does not give it up so easily, resisting one final time as it has rested firmly in place for 62 years. But a dollop of liquid soap and the son’s dogged persistence–twist-turn-twist-turn–yields the prized ring that the dutiful, worshipping son transfers to his own pinky finger for safe keeping.
There’s a pause. The oxygen hums on while the son asks the others, all of whom gaze in frightened anticipation at the dying man, “Who makes the call—officially, I mean?” No one has experienced this before. All are child like at the foot of the bed, not knowing what to do. The daughter-in-law points to the head nurse, still scrolling on his phone, so the son, fingers bejeweled with his father’s wedding ring as well as his own, approaches the nurse.
One long silent minute passes. The smoking break is ended, and the two sons, the grandson and the daughter-in-law close ranks and surround the now still man. They part way for the nurse who moves slowly, respectfully with instruments in hand to make the call.
The daughter-in-law cries while her husband drapes his arm around her.
The grandson, tears welling in his tired eyes, leans forward 45 degrees, a sentry for Grandpa one final time.
The ring-bedecked son, standing at the foot of the bed, shuffles his feet, purses his lips, then inhales and holds in a long breath before exhaling a deep sigh, the weight of several intense caretaking years slowly shifting up and away from his aching shoulders.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
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