20 Instances of Death

I.

I think he’s waiting for you, my mother hisses inconspicuously into the receiver of the landline phone.

Mom! I say, horrified. Can he hear you?

She’s pressing buttons on the microwave. There’s a deafening scratch  - she’s dropped the phone - a whirring, then a ping. 

Whoops! she says. Gotta go.

*

The table in the dining room is covered with unopened mail, pill bottles, and old receipts.

His neck cranes above the backside of the brown recliner - C-SPAN, volume maxed.

I sneak up behind his chair and drop a kiss on the top of his bald head, inhale Bay Rum.

Lauren! he says.

Leaning in for a hug, I set off his hearing aids.

Happens every time, he laughs.

*

I’ve been warned that dysphagia and cookies don’t mix, he says.

I’ve unpacked my enormous suitcase and a sleeve of Oreos.

I plop onto the gold recliner and wiggle to get comfortable - it’s still stamped with the shape of my grandmother, gone a decade.

We eat forbidden cookies and share secrets.

He chokes the rest of the night.

II

On my 15th birthday, he took me to Friendly’s for a coffee Fribble and a chat about spelunking.

If you’re brave enough to explore the darkest caves, to jump in even when you can’t see the bottom, he said, you’ll discover creatures it will take a lifetime to understand. 

The rewards are not immediate, he cautioned, reading my brow. But it’s how you avoid becoming a dull adult.

*

Clever move - tricking me into introspection and examination - by offering up a dare.

III

He moans in his sleep.

I should pull a chair to his bed, 

keep the covers tucked to his chin. 

Instead, at the threshold of his bedroom,

I count breaths. 

One, two, three,

nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I’m about to shout his name, pinch his arm,

when his eyes snap open,

legs thrashing under the sheets

before he gags, 

sputters, 

sinks.

*

Scuttling back to the couch, Us Weekly from the Boston airport

turned to pulp on the coffee table from its use as a coaster,

I nurse an awful hunch: I’m a lily-livered, yellow-bellied rat.

*

No.

Dirt-stained, astride a bay mare

galloping forest edge to headland,

an ungodly shriek stops us cold.

Chin upturned, battle axe skyward,

my ruby lips part to release a war cry

so fierce a killer whale breaches.  

The thought fills me with embarrassment.

I eat.

IV

Cheyne-Stokes.

He stops breathing for 62 seconds at a time.

My mother times it on her watch.

I can’t stay underwater for that long, she says.

V 

He spends his days underwater,

a steelhead swaying over pink river rock

and mats of blue-green algae.

Whirligigs blur the surface.

Moving closer to examine 

the speckled olive of his back,

slick of rose, I cast a shadow.  

His caudal fin snaps,

propelling him upstream.

 VI

You should learn how to play World of Warcraft! 

says my brother over a bowl of spicy Pad Thai.

Sad? Just kill an abomination!”

VII

His heart is failing, reports the nurse.  

My mother strokes his forehead.

My sister holds one hand, 

me, the other.

A failing heart can be fixed 

by a closed circuit of love 

I think foolishly, childishly.

VIII

We think he is minutes away.

We think that it will happen in the next few hours. 

We think we should start making phone calls.

We think we should page the nurse.

The doorbell rings.

“WHO IS RINGING THE GODDAMN BELL?” he roars, foaming.

IX

When he dies, I suspect it will snow.

Or it won’t.

I read my horoscope.

X

I dream of falling 

backwards into a pot 

of black ink. 

Clawing for the surface, 

lungs burning, fingertips

scrape the waxed bottom.

Wrong way.

XI

I had an affair.

Lied to my friends.

Quit my job.

Moved home.

Unpacked my bags.

Settled in to help him die.

At night, I fluff the feather pillows from the couch,

tuck them close and imagine myself curled at the center

of a bear’s winter den, its dense animal-heat protecting

a child who is me dependent on an adult who is me.

XII

I must leave the house.

I meet my brother at a dive bar, 

suck down a beer and a cigarette.

In the wooden booth,

I can still smell it.

It’s impossible to escape, I tell my brother,

swallowing my fancy beer.

You can’t trick death, he shrugs,

swallowing his unfancy one.

XIII

This hospice nurse smells like Downy and cigarettes,

her voice a potato peeler catching a fingernail.

“MAURICE, CAN YOU HEAR ME?” she yells into his ear.

If I were him, I’d pretend I’m dead too.

XIV

We crush Lorazepam 

in a spoon, add water, 

mix it into a syringe of morphine.

When we administer 

the medicine, we lift 

our tongues, too.

XV

I need my nephews.

I need them to jump from furniture,

say stuff they shouldn’t.

When they show up, they’re hushed.

It’s just too much right now. 

They leave. 

XVI

My mother, my mother, my mother.

She doesn’t know what to say,

so she crouches close and shouts:

“I’m 61! My birthday was yesterday!”

His head rolls toward her voice.

“Can you believe it?!” she says,

her face the sun on his horizon.

His eyes open slowly. He smiles!

XVII

I want a man to rescue me.

I want never to make mistakes.

I want never to lie.

I want death to be silent,

bloodless, painless, quick.

I want, shamelessly.

The thought fills me with shame.

I eat.

XVIII

I sit in an uncomfortable chair repeating a mantra:

Death is oceanic, your courage a raft. 

The mantra morphs:

Death is a shiver of sharks, your fear the chum.

XIX

The hospice nurse suggests 

we tell him that we will be okay, 

that he can let go, that the dying 

need to hear they’ve been enough.

My mother points out that he is heavily sedated. 

Yes, she says.

XX

The door to his bedroom is cracked.

A sliver of violet light 

crosses the carpet, 

          halves the cotton sheet tucked to his chin,

climbs the bone-white wall.

On the edge of his bed, 

     I grab his hand

kneading warmth

until it softens,

unfolds,

in the center,

a dark hole,

whorled,

widening,

mouth of an 

       inkwell, 

black ink. 

*

Not a dull adult,

I dive in.

Blinded, 

sediment sinking

into dark hum.

*

Breached levee

floods his bedroom

with memory,

rawhide mitt, black soutane, beach rose,

   garden tomato, filigree pen, 

       Roman missal -    

               current gathering strength,

ripping,

propelling us past an eddyline, 

    folding us under

to the mud-black bottom

where hulking monochromes blur -

iron gate, oak pew, barber chair, 

marble headstone, stone bénitier -

water filling throat, lungs burning,

  legs cramping,

regret, fear, 

             regret  - 

No.

Thighing through eddyline, 

bay mare hitched to shore,

dirt-stained, ruby-lipped, 

war cry, battle axe, 

clutch, 

   raft,

     release,

float.

A stretch of sunlight and fern, 

          a warbler’s chipped, bright song, 

                    marsh grass, 

                              driftwood, 

                silver maple, 

                          bulrush, 

                               a bend in the river,

  sweet air.

The water ringing with truth: 

You are enough. 

*

There’s a still, clear pool.

Speckled olive, slick of rose.

  With a flick of his caudal fin, 

  he disappears upstream.

I.

Whirligigs spin across the water.

Dusk gives way to dark.

A car pulls into the driveway.

I lay his hand by his side and head to the kitchen

to join the hushed uncertainties of the living

where we’ll brew coffee and pencil lists,

sift for meaning, trading myths.