A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

As I lie waiting for my turn in the CAT scanner, which I’m thinking is like a cerebral lie-detector test, I am all the more sure there’s a link between Nixon’s clots and Watergate. And, not to put myself in the same league, but I’m sure the episode with George followed by Jane’s death has caused my brain to blow.

During the CAT scan to comfort myself I review Nixon’s enemies list.

1. Arnold M. Picker

2. Alexander E. Barkan

3. Ed Guthman

4. Maxwell Dane

5. Charles Dyson

6. Howard Stein

7. Allard Lowenstein

8. Morton Halperin

9. Leonard Woodcock

10. S. Sterling Munro Jr.

11. Bernard T. Feld

12. Sidney Davidoff

13. John Conyers

14. Samuel M. Lambert

15. Stewart Rawlings Mott

16. Ronald Dellums

17. Daniel Schorr

18. S. Harrison Dogole

19. Paul Newman

20. Mary McGrory

I am admitted to a semi-private room on a monitored floor. It occurs to me to call my “regular” doctor. Every word is a struggle. I do my best to explain my situation. The doctor’s office manager tells me it’s in God’s hands, and besides that, the doctor doesn’t practice outside of the city, and, more to the point, he’s on vacation. She asks if I would like to be transferred to Death Israel when the doctor is back.

“What is Death Israel?”

“The hospital where the doctor is affiliated,” the office manager says.

“Sounds anti-Semitic,” my roommate says, having heard it all.

“I hope I’ll be home before…” I say, my speech sounding slightly more coherent and familiar.

“If you change your mind, let us know,” the office manager says.

“There’s nothing worse than actually needing a doctor,” my roommate says.

“What are you in for?” I ask, though I think it comes out sounding more like “Why you here?”

“The show is over,” he says. “Clock’s ticking down. Have you noticed I’m not moving? I’m stuck — all that’s still going is my brain, or what’s left of my brain. By the way, are you blurry or is it me?”

Before I can answer, the dog volunteer comes in. “I’m a Furry Friends Companion Consultant.” She pulls up a chair and takes out an information packet and forms. “Do you have a cat or a dog?”

“Both.”

“If a stranger opens the door, would they attack? Where is the food, and how much do they each get? Is the dog all right overnight — or do you need a nighttime companion? We have students who occasionally will do sleepovers.”

“How long am I going to be here?” I ask.

“That’s a question for your doctor. Adoption is also an option in some cases.”

“Someone would adopt me?”

“Someone might adopt the pets — if, say, you weren’t going to be going home. …”

“Where would I go?”

“To a skilled nursing facility, for example, or onward. …”

“Dead. She means dead,” the guy in the next bed says. “They don’t like to come out and say it, but I can, because, as I mentioned, I’m heading there soon.”

“You don’t seem so sick,” I said to the guy. “You’re perfectly coherent.”

I wipe drool from my own mouth.

“That’s what makes it so rough,” the guy says. “Totally compos mentis, aware of everything, but that won’t last for long.”

“Did you consider hospice?” the furry friend asks my roommate.

“What’s the difference — the art on the wall? They all smell like shit.” His hand comes up to his face. “Was that me or someone else?” he asks, and no one says anything. “My hand or yours?”

“It was yours,” I say.

“Oh,” he says.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” the furry volunteer says, “but you two will have all day and I’ve got things to do.”

“All day, or not,” the dying man says.

“About the pets — their names, ages? Do you have the house key with you?”

“Tessie is the dog, I don’t know how old, and Muffin is the cat. There’s a spare key under the fake rock on the left before the front door — a fake key and ten bucks.”

The dying man hums to drown out the conversation. “Too much information,” he says. “More than I should know.”

“Like, what, you’re going to get out of bed and steal my house?”

“Can you take dictation?” the dying man asks.

“I can try.” I push the call button and ask for paper and pencil.

“It’ll be a while,” the nurse says.

“I’ve got a dying man who wants to confess.”

“We all have needs,” she says.

I nap. In my sleep I hear gunshots. I wake up thinking my brother is trying to kill me.

“It’s not you,” the guy in the bed next to me says. “It’s on TV. While you were sleeping, a cop came to see you. He said he’ll be back later.”

I don’t say anything.

“Can I ask you a question? Are you the guy who killed his wife?”

“What makes you ask?”

“I overheard someone talking about a guy who killed his wife.”

I shrug. “My wife is divorcing me. She canceled my health insurance.”

Someone comes in and says, “Which one of you asked for a priest?”

“We asked for paper.”

“Oh,” the guy says. He goes out and comes back with a yellow legal pad and a pen.

“Where to begin?” the dying man says. “For certain, there are questions that will go unanswered. The difficulty is that there is not an answer for everything — some things cannot be known.”

He begins to spin a story, a complicated narrative about a woman — how they came together and then apart.

His story is beautiful and eloquent, Salingeresque; they didn’t speak the same language, she wore a beautiful red scarf, and she got pregnant.

I try to get it down. As I’m looking at what I’m writing, I see that it’s not making sense. I’m not writing in English. Whatever marks I’m making on this paper are not anything that another person could read. I focus on catchphrases, I draw pictures, I try to make a map — I am all over the page, hoping I can clean it up later. He’s going on and on, and right when we get to what I think would be the end, the dénouement, the guy sits bolt upright. “I’m not breathing,” he says.

I push the call button. “He’s not breathing,” I shout. “He’s going from pale pink to deep red, kind of purple.”

Soon the room is filled with people. “We were in the middle of a conversation, he was coming to the punch line, and then, suddenly, he sat up and said, ‘I’m not breathing.’”

Now he’s sputtering, choking, in trouble, and more people come, and it’s like an audience. They’re all standing there watching the guy.

“Are you going to just watch or are you going to do something?” I ask.

“There’s nothing we can do,” the nurses say.

“Of course there is,” I say.

“He’s DNR. Do Not Resuscitate.”

He wanted to die a good death. But look at him. He’s struggling like he’s choking to death.

“We know not when or how we will be called home,” one of them says, and then they whip the curtain between the beds closed.

“That is not okay,” I say, hauling my damaged self out of the goddamned bed and peeling the curtain open.

He’s bucking and heaving and seems to be begging for someone to do something. Despite the tangle of EKG wires hanging off my chest and my double IVs, I get close to him, my exposed ass edging the nurses out of the way. And in my mind he’s telling me to sock it to him, so I do. I give him one hell of an uppercut, slamming him in the gut with all I’ve got.