neutral curtains color the room in eerie tones that attempt to offer comfort while at the same time making the severity of death all the more real. gray and blue and green and tan. machines, ventilators.beeping numbers, flashing alarms. lines that go up and go down. the picture has already been painted, the story written, the ending decided and yet here we sit: a twisted version of movie goers, no popcorn or soda but the same anticipation to see what the screen will bring although we already know. the plot follows a broken body struggling for life, for breath: the oxygen that fuels a sometimes menial existence; a desperate war between carbon dioxide and oxygen, the victor already decided.
strange is the business of dying.
tubes going in, the essence of life going out. tears fill eyes almost making up for the action the lungs refuse to do. we grasp hands, hold arms, talk. we sit down, stand up, pace. we talk to the dying or perhaps already dead. the room feels empty although there is more than one body laboring for life beyond this hospital room. we watch the monitor, almost praying for zeros, no more jagged lines, a flat plane we can walk on, a surface we can anticipate. "oh the places we end up." someone says and speaks of earlier plans. silence falls, eyes back to the screen. stable numbers begin to fall: the build-up to the climax.
strange is the business of dying.
the true test of adulthood, watching life leave. the numbers once steady drop suddenly: a car driving off a cliff, a dish breaking, a wave crashing. over. done. the climax. a time is called, "4:30" they say. four thirty, four thirty, four thirty.
strange is the business of dying.
"the lord's will has been done today."
the alarms are turned off. the screen goes black. the room darkens. we stand once more, exit the so-called theater... the place where we viewed death.
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