Why do all hospital rooms have the same look and feel? The exact same layout, lighting, temperature, and sounds form an uninspired healthcare feng shui designed (seemingly) by the unimaginative and soulless, where each room lives on the outskirts of a nurses’ station, just within earshot of the muffled voices of hospital employees and concerned family members.
Over time, patients and their visitors accept (as elements of the hospital room lexicon) the beeps and pings that gently interrupt their conversation.
After an extended quiet stretch in room 303, a 7-year-old girl donned in black leggings, and a pale pink dress speaks.
“Are you afraid of dying, Gramma?”
Surprised by the question, the young girl’s mother, who sits at the foot of the bed, looks up from the book she’s been pretending to read, purses her lips, and shakes her head at her daughter.
The old woman in the hospital bed looks at her granddaughter lovingly – “No, honey, I’m not,” opening the door to conversation.
“I’d definitely be afraid,” the seven-year-old girl says with certainty.
The young girl continues: “Why aren’t you afraid, Grandma?”
“I’m not afraid because I don’t believe there’s anything to be afraid of.”
“Hmm,” the granddaughter says with a hint of admiration.
“What do you think heaven will be like?” the granddaughter continues.
“Heaven? Oh goodness, honey! I don’t believe in heaven.”
The dying woman looks past her granddaughter to her disapproving daughter.
“Mom, please don’t,” the daughter says with a weighty resignation – hoping to close the door on the conversation before it seizes all the oxygen in the room.
“What? I’m just being honest with my little Butternut,” the grandma said, smiling warmly at the girl.
The granddaughter is intrigued by how her question animates the adults in the room. Suddenly, she feels elevated and important. Her mom’s tone tells her she is on the cusp of something bigger than her question.
She looks at them both in a silent plea for answers.
The grandmother speaks.
“Come close, Butternut.”
The granddaughter scooches her chair closer and grabs her grandma’s hand instinctively, at which point the grandma continues:
“I’ve lived a long and happy life.”
“My time is coming to an end.”
Pointing at her own face, the grandma says “I’ve been lucky enough to earn all these wrinkles and crinkles (the granddaughter chuckles at the rhyme).
“I expect that when I die, I won’t feel a thing – I’ll simply stop being.”
The grandma looks at her granddaughter intently and says:
“I don’t want you to fret about me! Do you understand?
I’ll live in your memory and your mom’s memory for a while, which is good enough for me – living in your memory is all the heaven I need.”
The girl keeps her head bowed, holds back her tears, and fiddles with the ties on the back of her Barbie doll’s bikini — all while trying to conceptualize human mortality and the consequence of loss heaped on her by her dying grandmother.
The daughter clears her throat and speaks quietly to the girl.
“What Grandma is saying, honey, is that she’ll be fine even after she’s gone – so we don’t need to worry about her.”
The child looks at her mom then at her grandmother for confirmation.
“Well, not exactly,” the grandmother responds to her daughter’s attempt at shielding the granddaughter from the truth.
“What I’m saying, Butternut, is when all those dings and beeps finally fall silent (pointing to the equipment mounted on the wall above the bed), so will I.
That doesn’t mean I’ll be fine – it simply means I’ll be gone – and I’m okay with that.”
“Mom, she’s 7 for God’s Sake! She doesn’t need to hear this.”
With a laser-like focus that belies her age and terminal condition, the grandmother turns towards her daughter’s words – her slate-grey eyes burn with newfound purpose.
“Well, I think she does need to hear it – and even if she doesn’t, I need to say it.”
The grandmother continues to speak in the direction of her daughter.
“When you’re dying, there’s nothing tangible to hold on to. Instead, there’s a constant and continuous feeling of being adrift until eventually you relinquish control to doctors, nurses, epidemiologists, and every other soul that hums about this godforsaken place on a daily basis.”
The grandma continues:
“The two things I still control today are my thoughts and feelings – and the last thing I want is to lie to my granddaughter about my thoughts and feelings.”
“I don’t want liars’ guilt knocking around my noggin as I drift off to my final sleep.“
“I want to be honest, strong, and a fucking font of truth to my granddaughter.”
“Grandma! You said a bad word!”
“Ha!” the grandma laughs and smiles at her granddaughter and says, “There’s no such thing as a bad word, Butternut!”
The grandma leans back in bed, looks at her granddaughter and speaks.
“Ask me anything, Butternut! “
“Now’s the time.”
bendingtheneedle 