The Coldness of your Bed
By: RDV
The difference between delusion and fact is always made apparent when something final happens. Death, for instance.
He’s gone now; no use covering the fact that he suffered long and immensely. His deathbed was sleek and kept well soon after he stopped breathing. No traces of sweat or any bodily fluid tainted the sheets. During his last many days, there was nothing that could be extracted from him anymore. He was a dry vegetable, barely breathing, and only living through the dextrose that ever towered over his bed. An instrument of death. He never sweated, slobbered or bled even when the bed sores had produced map-like marks all over his back. His body was too emaciated to contain liquids. His life hung in a perilous balance. He was dead long before he was officially pronounced so.
His loved-ones took turns watching over him in fulfilment of their duties as his beloved. When he gasped, they’d come to his rescue; with the alacrity of a bleeding wound requires, they’d fix his oxygen mask. Did they even know how unbearable that was to him, and how, it should’ve been to them? Even during the time at which they should be serenely asleep, one of them would be there by his side, on a stool, watching, commiserating with his every labored breath. They thought he wasn’t aware. He was, and if he could just open his mouth he’d beg them to commit euthanasia through whatever means. He hated these last days, living in dereliction and near death which wouldn’t push through.
They continued to water his mouth, scrub his body regardless of how disgusting it had since become. He never understood why they never let go, why they went on clinging to his last breaths, why they chose to prolong his suffering in a way that made life feel like the core of hell. When his respiration became inordinate he knew it was time. He was carted off immediately to the hospital. He’d suffered for three days before he died altogether. His last visions were fragments of hallucinations in which he was clothed in white and was well and alive. But in reality, it was quite the opposite save for the clothed-in-white part. With him were one of his daughters, one of his daughters-in-law and one of his grandchildren who was a nurse, who were until now under the pretense that he could still make it, somehow. He died in a summation of suffering. He died on a life that didn’t deserve to be endured. He was glad to go, to everyone’s denial.
At last. The crowning of his life had come.
His bed stood still, the blankets white and clean. He left no trace of ever occupying it.
The difference between delusion and fact is always made apparent when something final happens. Death, for instance.
He’s gone now; no use covering the fact that he suffered long and immensely. His deathbed was sleek and kept well soon after he stopped breathing. No traces of sweat or any bodily fluid tainted the sheets. During his last many days, there was nothing that could be extracted from him anymore. He was a dry vegetable, barely breathing, and only living through the dextrose that ever towered over his bed. An instrument of death. He never sweated, slobbered or bled even when the bed sores had produced map-like marks all over his back. His body was too emaciated to contain liquids. His life hung in a perilous balance. He was dead long before he was officially pronounced so.
His loved-ones took turns watching over him in fulfilment of their duties as his beloved. When he gasped, they’d come to his rescue; with the alacrity of a bleeding wound requires, they’d fix his oxygen mask. Did they even know how unbearable that was to him, and how, it should’ve been to them? Even during the time at which they should be serenely asleep, one of them would be there by his side, on a stool, watching, commiserating with his every labored breath. They thought he wasn’t aware. He was, and if he could just open his mouth he’d beg them to commit euthanasia through whatever means. He hated these last days, living in dereliction and near death which wouldn’t push through.
They continued to water his mouth, scrub his body regardless of how disgusting it had since become. He never understood why they never let go, why they went on clinging to his last breaths, why they chose to prolong his suffering in a way that made life feel like the core of hell. When his respiration became inordinate he knew it was time. He was carted off immediately to the hospital. He’d suffered for three days before he died altogether. His last visions were fragments of hallucinations in which he was clothed in white and was well and alive. But in reality, it was quite the opposite save for the clothed-in-white part. With him were one of his daughters, one of his daughters-in-law and one of his grandchildren who was a nurse, who were until now under the pretense that he could still make it, somehow. He died in a summation of suffering. He died on a life that didn’t deserve to be endured. He was glad to go, to everyone’s denial.
At last. The crowning of his life had come.
His bed stood still, the blankets white and clean. He left no trace of ever occupying it.
posted by Ria D. at
9:44 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home