The Gift of Life

by Troy McCombs

The Gift of Life

  By

  Troy McCombs

  Copyright 2014 by Troy McCombs

  Death. Lord knows I've been around it for as long as I've been alive. Some people become desensitized by it, but those people are often the ones who will later cause it. I've lived through several wars, and I've watched countless folks die. Never have I become immune to such a horrible thing. The pain some individuals go through while passing should shame God. Wasn't He the one who created it in the first place?

  My journey didn't begin here at Belford Hospice. My goal is pretty simple anyway: to save the few that I can from dying, and to make life more tolerable for those I cannot.

  "Bonanza. You’re obsessed with this damn show, Eli," Bill said from his motorized wheelchair.

  "It's better than any of the Twilight Zone junk you watch over and over again," Eli replied, scowling at Bill. I hadn't been here long—two days, in fact—but I was old and experienced enough to know when people were sworn enemies. The funny thing was, these guys were the same. For whatever unknown reason, when two people are too much alike, they can't get along no matter how hard they try. Or don't try.

  "If only we were in our twenties, I'd beat your ass so bad that no hemorrhoidal cream could ever heal it."

  Cindy, the skinny woman who was busy knitting a sweater for her granddaughter, chuckled and shook her head. Everyone else in the room tried not to pay attention. Some of their hearing was so bad, they didn't hear a thing, anyway. Others were busy playing games or watching Bonanza.

  "You do know that I was a tough prizefighter back in the 50s. I almost got a title shot."

  "Yeah, yeah. We've heard that bullshit story a hundred times before. You couldn't hurt a fly with a bazooka now."

  "Why don't you get out of your chair and let's see?"

  Bill tried get up, but ended up falling back into his chair.

  "See? Your bones are so old and brittle you can't even walk."

  "If I didn't have arthritis, you'd be picking up your dentures off the floor right now."

  "You guys at it again?" Mark Waters said as he strutted into the rec room. He was my favorite staff member in the building, mostly because I could tell he truly cared for us geezers.

  "Jesus, he gets on my nerves," Eli said.

  "You get on my nerves, asshole," Bill replied.

  Mark just laughed. He always laughed, always gave a smile to those who couldn't do anything other than frown. Unfortunately, I couldn't say the same thing for the other staff members.

  Mark walked over to me. "Hey Vinny! How are you doing today, my man?"

  "Oh, hanging in there."

  "That's all we can do. Listen, I want to get your vitals real quick.

  "Sure thing, guy."

  Debbie Naught, the horny old broad of the bunch, eyed me seductively as Mark wheeled me out of the room.

  "So you said you don't have any family? At all?"

  "That's right. I haven't had any family for quite some time."

  "Sorry to hear."

  "Yeah, it gets very lonely sometimes, but at least I have my health. It's good."

  "I hope so. That's what we're about to find out."

  I glanced into every room as he wheeled me down the long, dimly-lit hall. Some people in the rooms were hooked up to respirators. Some were in drug-induced comas, waiting for the Reaper to come and take them. One of them was eating a meal. Another was talking with family. But it was the woman in Room 32 that really caught my attention. I only saw her for a second, but she definitely left an impression on me. I didn't know why, not then. “Who's that?”

  “Maryann. Okay, Vinny." Mark wheeled me into an examination room.

  He stopped me between a sink and an examination table. He then took the blood pressure cuff off the wall and wrapped it around my left arm. Grabbing the pump, Mark squeezed it several times. I felt my bicep grow tight, tighter. A strange, confused look came over him slowly. "Wow..."

  "What's that?" I played the fool.

  "Your blood pressure couldn't be better. It's better than mine, in fact. Let me get your pulse."

  He did just that. Again, he seemed amazed by my flawless health. "So far, Vinny, you seem as healthy as a horse."

  Mark did further tests on me, finding that I was in supreme shape. I, of course, knew this. Only I knew why.

  That's one of the reasons I came to Belford Hospice in the first place.

  I had a certain power.

  During my first week there, I'd gotten to know everybody, inside and out. I made many friends, few enemies—the latter which consisted wholly of the staff, none of whom showed any real compassion for us, save Mark. Every patient had good stories to tell and good experiences to share. It made me very sad, because I only had one person to choose from. I wanted to save them all.

  On a bright, cloudless Sunday, Eli died. He went to sleep the night before and just never woke up. That's the most peaceful way to go, they say, and I agree. I've seen many die in their sleep. They simply sleep forever.

  Three days later, Janice Tolbert died while playing checkers in the rec room. Things were quiet that afternoon. Nobody said much of anything to each other. Then, suddenly, Janice's eyes grew as wide as can be and she grabbed her chest, groaning in pain. Some of the others backed away from her. Some of them hurried out of the room, panicked, unable to watch her kick the bucket. Everyone in the room, I could see, was just as scared as she was as her body began to shut down. Everyone knew that their own fate would be similar, just as bad. Cindy began crying. Mike threw up his lunch.

  I jumped out of my chair and went to her aide. Janice clutched onto my shirt so firmly, I could feel genuine strength. The breath went out of her, like a deflating balloon. Her body convulsed, then went still. Her glossy eyes remained open in a horrific stare. I quickly closed them so that nobody else could see the apparent fear.

  You could have heard a pin drop, it was so quiet. I didn't hear anyone breathe. I don't think anyone could. I didn't even hear Frank fart, which he often did when he got nervous. Everybody was too shocked to utter a groan. And, for the very first time, I wondered if Janice was in a better place than any of us could dream of being.

  Whether she was or not, I'd never know. The process of dying frightened me all too much.

  On Sunday, Cindy's daughter, granddaughter, and son-in-law came to visit. The old woman was thrilled to see them, smiling the entire time and trying to make further plans, but none of them acted like they wanted to be here. Lindy, her granddaughter, refused to give Cindy a hug.

  "Well, Mother, we'd better get going. Traffic is going to get bad soon," Cindy's daughter said. The son-in-law never said anything beyond Hi. I knew that traffic wasn't bad, not at this time of day, not around here. I'd scoped out this place before my arrival. No, Cindy's own family—her own flesh and blood—wanted nothing to do with her. She was just an old stranger waiting to expire. They had their own selfish lives to live.

  Oh, I tell you, the older you get, the lonelier you become. You can write that in stone, too. Those around you leave you behind, whether via death or disinterest. It happens. There's nothing you can do about it, either. Some people grow apart; others stop caring, but they all, in the end, disappear.

  Cindy disappeared on a rainy Tuesday. She cried continuously since the visit, and died, I presumed, of a broken heart. I'd almost decided saved her, too. She was almost sad enough.

  See, I only save the ones who can't save themselves, the ones who literally have nothing, the ones who won't laugh no matter how funny a joke is or smile when they see the sunshine pour through the barred windows. They have to be the ones who are most afraid of both, being alive and dying. I made that my rule. Like I said before, I can only save one every so often. Any more, and I wil
l get fatally ill. My abilities, despite how mysterious and powerful, are limited.

  "How are you doing?" I asked Sam Wicker, an old, colored fellow with frizzy white hair. He was sitting at the table, eating a bowl of oats.

  "How do you think I'm doing? I'm 91 years old. No part of my body works right. I wake up in the middle of the night with chest pains. I can't remember what my wife looks like. Getting old's a curse from a cruel god."

  I definitely couldn't disagree with that. I couldn't continue the conversation any further, for I didn't know what else to say. I did not want to upset the poor guy. I felt sorry for him, for all these old folks. Immediately afterward, I went back to my room and had a long, sorrowful cry. Nothing in this world made any sense. Not life, death, people, politics, pain, fear, hate, anger, violence, or war. Were we put on earth to be abused? Why were any of us here to be put through hell... then left to perish? Was this one huge downward spiral, leading to nowhere?

  In the following weeks, nobody died or had any health scares. Bill's hearing must have gotten worse, because every time he watched TV, he turned the volume up a notch or two. Sam kept to himself mostly, usually staring depressingly out the window. Debbie asked me to come to her room for a late night lay. Pam, the one-time blond bombshell (I'd seen pictures), had become a checkers whiz, beating everyone at the simple game with ease.

  Though things were looking up, or average, at least, I was still