Dead and Alive

Dedicated to my Dalia

W

ard Of The Dying

“Doctor said to come now”. Russian accented nurse on the telephone. Dalia: “Is he better?” “Doctor said to come, he will explain”, insists Nurse. Dalia came and stood with the young doctor on duty at the foot of my bed. “May I talk to him?” The question went unanswered, doctor pretending not to hear. Like a discarded piece of paper, the question hung in the air for a while, then fluttered to the floor and disappeared. This was the dying ward. Terminus. They did not even bother to put men and women in separate rooms. Death is the great equalizer for everything, gender included. Near me a man connected to a respirator burbled and gurgled. His good daughter, in a neo-traditional orthodox feminine attire, her whole demeanor radiating piety and milk of human compassion, insisted on prolonging his life and instructed the doctors to use this intubation contraption. Miserere nobis... Have mercy upon us... The ultimate proof that love and stupidity are not mutually exclusive. Talk about the right to die in dignity... Bless you, Dalia, for forbidding them to prolong my “life”.

I am dying. Complexion pale, slight tint reflecting the brownish blanket tucked all over me and under my chin. Eyes closed. Packaged, ready to go. Soft plastic bag Oxygen mask over mouth and nose motionless. Monitor over bed beeping once in a while, forlorn heart last life signals picked up sporadically.

Young doctor motions towards the makeshift office. Unable to speak, I am left behind to finish my dying. “Please be seated.” Silence for a moment, eyes gently calculating, observing Dalia, to see how she takes it. Good bedside manners, but not really interested or compassionate. Spans time by filling out forms and asking for personal data. Plastic pen dances on paper, hops from field to field like a little girl playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. Jumping on one foot to and fro, careful not to step on lines, in a navy-blue and white sailor's suit (Else called it Matrosen Anzug, and I had to wear it on Saturdays, when Emil took us all to Kaffee Vienna for afternoon coffee, listening to the band molesting the Blue Danube. Funny what dead people think about.) Courteously: “In a few minutes I will sign the certificate, Mrs. Censor... I have two questions... quite painful but important. Will you authorize us to perform a post mortem? It helps us and thus helps others too.”--Tired nods--”... And harvest the eye corneas to help people who need it? ”--More tired nods--”... Thank you, this is very helpful for us, as you know...” Handing his pen and pointing to the place to sign. Impatient now, Dalia: “Will this be all?” Needs to go home and brood alone. Away from blindingly whitewashed walls and pungent smells, and the monitor that stopped beeping and started a mournful, insistent soft alarm bell.

Officially dead now, orderly wheels me to Pathology. He is tired after the long night shift, smells of perspiration and his spiced midnight snack. He puts a sheet over me, I cannot see a damn thing, and the sounds and smells are meaningless. A duty ophthalmologist came to “harvest” the corneas. A clever circular incision with his compass-like scalpel, and the aqueous humor from the anterior chamber oozes down the cheek, as if I am soundlessly crying. Drawer of the cold chamber closes. Dead at last, free at last.

W

ard Of The Living

“Doctor said to come now”. Russian accented nurse on the telephone. Dalia: “Is he better?” “Doctor said to come, he will explain”, insists Nurse. Dalia came and stood with the young doctor on duty at the foot of my bed. “He is still sedated, but will soon wake up”. Doctor was very pleased, while Dalia contemplated all the tubes and cables connected to me, from the intubation hiding half my pale face, to the urinal catheter dripping into a plastic bag hanging on the side of the bed. The persistent beeping of the overhead monitor insists: “alive...”, “alive...”, “alive...”, “alive...”, “alive...”, about seventy times per minute.

(Dan Censor, 1998)