Apathy
Control.
His gaze returned to his brother and I took my leave. I slowly made way back through the maze of hallways and walked by the nurse’s station; I could feel their heavy gazes on me. Some in understanding, but most, most were close to glares. I shoved my hands in my pocket; they always shook on my return journey to my office, another habit from this aspect of my job. I knew I had about ten more seconds to myself before I would be called back to the room I had just left.
“Doctor Jameson!”
There it was; I heard the rushed footsteps and turned to face the brother. His face was flushed from the exertion it took to reach me in such a short time; “He said, he said he couldn’t do it, not while I was, not while I was in the room with him.” I knew the fear in his eyes was not from what I had just told his brother, but of what we would find when we returned to the room.
I let him lead me back through the halls, but I knew the moment we reached the door I would be the one to enter first. I was right; he reached a hand out to push the door open but faltered mid-reach. In previous years, I recalled the notion of placing a hand on the shoulder offered some semblance of comfort, so I did.
“You don’t have to go in first, not if you don’t want to.”
He nodded and stepped aside and I pressed the door open and walked slowly beyond the first bed, the glow of the television still present and the sounds of the same mundane sitcom permeating through the curtain. The sight that greeted me was one I was more than used to seeing. Mr. Hamilton lie in his bed, face pale, yet glistening with an unseen layer of sweat, eyes wide open, pupils slightly contracted and his chest not moving. He was one of the lucky ones then, the immediate reaction of a paralyzed heart.
I felt the presence of the man behind me and I knew that he knew his brother was dead. I turned to face him, his mouth set in a grim line, eyes cast to the floor, and shoulders slumped from defeat and a weight he didn’t have to bear. I never liked this part and despite the numerous times I’ve done it, I can never bring myself to offer the proper condolences. I moved to speak but he raised a hand, cutting me short.
“Don’t, please. Whatever you’re about to say cannot change what’s happened.”
I watched as he finally raised his gaze, meeting my own; it would take him a while to accept this. I’ve seen that look so many times, the guilt, the blame, the anger, but it’s all shadowed by the grief that comes from the loss of a loved one—especially one from this method.
“You can sit with him, the nurses are very understanding. They’ll permit you some time
before they have to take him.”
He nodded and walked around me and draped himself across the bed, hands desperately clutching at the sweater on his brother’s dead body. I turned to take my leave, knowing I would fully make it to the elevators, but I couldn’t help but to cast one final glance at the Hamilton brother. The quiet sobs coming from him as the finality of what just happened drowned him in a sorrow he’ll have to live with. I did it once before, learned to live with what I do, but that’s because I was the one in the brother’s shoes—it was my twenty-third death.
He wasn’t my brother, or any form of relative for that matter, he was simply another patient, but one I had known for years. He wasn’t one of the lucky ones, and I could only watch in horror as his skin paled, his breathing became irregular, spurts of slow, harsh breaths and then quick, pulsing wheezes. I watched as his eyes seemed to fade, his lips tinged blue and then he let out one last gargled breath and he was gone. I remember the doctor standing very much where I am; just off to the side but not quite out of the picture, she had spoken those words of useless comfort. Telling me I had a few moments with him to say my goodbyes; I told her I knew exactly what she was talking about and I told her I do the same thing.
I took one last look at Mr. Hamilton and left, walking out of the room, passing two nurses in the hall waiting patiently to go inside. Each giving me a different look, one a look of resented awe and the other seemed to look right through me. I made my way down the hall, through the maze that was the Oncology Ward and out to the elevators and pressed the button to call it to my floor. I stepped on and pressed the button for my floor and shoved my hands in my pockets as I rose to the seventh floor. My shoes didn’t make a sound on the floor and the smell of a sterile environment made me feel at ease.
I entered my office, closing the door behind me and walked over to my desk and closed Allen Hamilton’s folder then walked over to the middle bookshelf on the far wall. I opened the top drawer and placed it inside. I placed his file on top of another; Hamilton was number sixty-three. I glanced at the wall clock, still ignoring the watch in my right wrist, and noticed I had ten minutes till I had to scrub in for surgery. I began pacing and then I recalled the words the doctor said to me the day I watched twenty-three die.
She said them once we were in the elevator; the nurses had come in to prepare the body to be transported down to the morgue. She looked at me and then she spoke words I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget; “For a long time I thought I was doing the right thing, helping them end their pain and the suffering, but after a while I realized what I really was doing.” She chuckled a little then, “I got a say in who lived and who died and I didn’t mind it one bit—I was playing God.”
“Doctor Jameson!”
There it was; I heard the rushed footsteps and turned to face the brother. His face was flushed from the exertion it took to reach me in such a short time; “He said, he said he couldn’t do it, not while I was, not while I was in the room with him.” I knew the fear in his eyes was not from what I had just told his brother, but of what we would find when we returned to the room.
I let him lead me back through the halls, but I knew the moment we reached the door I would be the one to enter first. I was right; he reached a hand out to push the door open but faltered mid-reach. In previous years, I recalled the notion of placing a hand on the shoulder offered some semblance of comfort, so I did.
“You don’t have to go in first, not if you don’t want to.”
He nodded and stepped aside and I pressed the door open and walked slowly beyond the first bed, the glow of the television still present and the sounds of the same mundane sitcom permeating through the curtain. The sight that greeted me was one I was more than used to seeing. Mr. Hamilton lie in his bed, face pale, yet glistening with an unseen layer of sweat, eyes wide open, pupils slightly contracted and his chest not moving. He was one of the lucky ones then, the immediate reaction of a paralyzed heart.
I felt the presence of the man behind me and I knew that he knew his brother was dead. I turned to face him, his mouth set in a grim line, eyes cast to the floor, and shoulders slumped from defeat and a weight he didn’t have to bear. I never liked this part and despite the numerous times I’ve done it, I can never bring myself to offer the proper condolences. I moved to speak but he raised a hand, cutting me short.
“Don’t, please. Whatever you’re about to say cannot change what’s happened.”
I watched as he finally raised his gaze, meeting my own; it would take him a while to accept this. I’ve seen that look so many times, the guilt, the blame, the anger, but it’s all shadowed by the grief that comes from the loss of a loved one—especially one from this method.
“You can sit with him, the nurses are very understanding. They’ll permit you some time
before they have to take him.”
He nodded and walked around me and draped himself across the bed, hands desperately clutching at the sweater on his brother’s dead body. I turned to take my leave, knowing I would fully make it to the elevators, but I couldn’t help but to cast one final glance at the Hamilton brother. The quiet sobs coming from him as the finality of what just happened drowned him in a sorrow he’ll have to live with. I did it once before, learned to live with what I do, but that’s because I was the one in the brother’s shoes—it was my twenty-third death.
He wasn’t my brother, or any form of relative for that matter, he was simply another patient, but one I had known for years. He wasn’t one of the lucky ones, and I could only watch in horror as his skin paled, his breathing became irregular, spurts of slow, harsh breaths and then quick, pulsing wheezes. I watched as his eyes seemed to fade, his lips tinged blue and then he let out one last gargled breath and he was gone. I remember the doctor standing very much where I am; just off to the side but not quite out of the picture, she had spoken those words of useless comfort. Telling me I had a few moments with him to say my goodbyes; I told her I knew exactly what she was talking about and I told her I do the same thing.
I took one last look at Mr. Hamilton and left, walking out of the room, passing two nurses in the hall waiting patiently to go inside. Each giving me a different look, one a look of resented awe and the other seemed to look right through me. I made my way down the hall, through the maze that was the Oncology Ward and out to the elevators and pressed the button to call it to my floor. I stepped on and pressed the button for my floor and shoved my hands in my pockets as I rose to the seventh floor. My shoes didn’t make a sound on the floor and the smell of a sterile environment made me feel at ease.
I entered my office, closing the door behind me and walked over to my desk and closed Allen Hamilton’s folder then walked over to the middle bookshelf on the far wall. I opened the top drawer and placed it inside. I placed his file on top of another; Hamilton was number sixty-three. I glanced at the wall clock, still ignoring the watch in my right wrist, and noticed I had ten minutes till I had to scrub in for surgery. I began pacing and then I recalled the words the doctor said to me the day I watched twenty-three die.
She said them once we were in the elevator; the nurses had come in to prepare the body to be transported down to the morgue. She looked at me and then she spoke words I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget; “For a long time I thought I was doing the right thing, helping them end their pain and the suffering, but after a while I realized what I really was doing.” She chuckled a little then, “I got a say in who lived and who died and I didn’t mind it one bit—I was playing God.”
♠ ♠ ♠
THE END.