The Hospital Room

Caleb’s last memory of his mother he was not sure was even a memory. Not like a photograph faded over time proving a place existed or a scene happened, but more like overgrown ruins found along a forest path suggesting that at one time something existed. A photo rebuilds a memory as originally created. Without one, a memory can only be constructed based on imagination combined with known facts. There was no photo to go along with Caleb’s memory, just a hospital room.

The cold, sterile air did not bring Caleb comfort. The whole room was harsh, not created for comfort, but for functionality. Machines stood by the bedside with wires and plastic tubes snaking up along the frame and attaching themselves to the exposed skin of the frail woman lying helpless in the bed. High-pitched beeps sounded from one machine in uniform cadence, confirming the woman was alive. Not much of a life anymore.

Until a few months ago, the woman’s life was happily consumed with the man and two children standing next to Caleb, as well as with Caleb. To him, this woman was his whole life. Caleb could not see much of her anymore. Not much was visible except her eyes and her forehead. The rest may as well have been like those overgrown ruins, hidden underneath thin blankets, cold plastic tubes, and uncaring wires. Even her mouth was muzzled by what looked to Caleb like a large plastic shell. He could only stand there and watch, unsure of what to say or how to act. He wanted to both cuddle up as close as he could to her on the bed, and run as far away as he could from the horrible scene. Maybe he could take her away with him to a happier memory. The one where they cuddled on the water bed and she showed him her new wig or how she wrapped the blue bandana around her head. “I love you.”

Or maybe the one where he took her on a wild goose chase through the grocery store looking for the mandarin oranges. The big squishy ones wrapped in tissue paper. They had been infested with bugs and had to be thrown out, the store manager said. Memories only a few weeks old, but happier still.

A nurse had come in with Caleb and the others. She scurried about the room checking liquids and hoses and readouts and charts, and asking stupid questions like “How do you feel?” The sick woman tried to respond, her voice barely audible. She tried to remove the muzzle, the nurse stopped her. “What was that?” The question was meant to sound caring. The nurse leaned down.

“It hurts.” Weak. Desperate.

The nurse stood straight. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry.”

A short while later the woman in the hospital room died. Caleb was sitting in the living room of some friend’s home when his father came through the front door with the news. “She’s gone.”

Caleb couldn’t remember if his father cried. Or if he cried. They all must have cried.

Caleb was given a new bowtie and new vest to wear for the funeral. The clothes made him feel fancy and grown up. A man gave him a piece of Dubble Bubble gum. I guess he didn’t know anything else to say or do. Caleb put it in his pocket for later. Gum had always been a special treat.