by Harper Kim
I nod. “Happy Halloween,” I yell back and casually hook an arm around my wife’s frail hip. We pause in place, taking a moment to canoodle under the old oak tree as our so-called “child” finishes his business. As Elizabeth bends down to pick up the fresh droppings, I notice the handsome family entering the corner white house with blue shingles. When I see the glow from the downstairs window marking the family’s entrance, I think, now that would be the kind of house I would have gotten if we had kids.
“Neil?” Elizabeth pauses. When I don’t answer, she changes tactics. “George?” she asks again, humored that I gave the neighbors our costume names instead of our real ones.
“Huh? Oh sorry. Is the poopmëister finished… Martha?”
Elizabeth chuckles until her lake blue eyes widen in startling horror and lock with mine. She grabs her chest as her body jerks in quiet spasms under my trembling hands. The curly white wig she donned for her Martha Washington costume tumbles off her pulsating head and onto the cold concrete sidewalk below, unmoving.
As the darkness closes in, encasing our two motionless silhouettes, a dog yaps, a coyote howls, and my body crumples to the ground beside my dying wife. I am left grief-stricken; my face, damp with tears.
HOSPITAL ROOM (II):
Saturday, June 23, 2012
11:47 A.M.
THE LATE MORNING SUN PEEKED SHYLY through the unruly plastic blinds hanging over a single window, casting long shadows across Sgt. Whimplestein’s sighing body. Freckles were starting to form over the left side of his face from daily exposure to the harsh sun streaming through the window. No one considered the need to apply sunblock on a coma patient.
A handful of greeting cards lined the shelf below the television set, a few from each major holiday, tokens from his granddaughter throughout the years. For quite a while she had been the only visitor to enter Room 301 of Grossmont Hospital. A single framed photo of a young woman with child, creased with age, stood on Sgt. Whimplestein’s bedside table, angled toward him. No recognizable signs of family, past or present, were displayed on Joe’s side of the room.
The nurses had already come and gone, first fiddling with the obnoxious beeping machines, rearranging countless tubes, and then scrawling on the charts that hung ominously at the foot of each bed. The charts were a lifeline, a thread begun upon admittance and snipped at recovery. Or death. Who you were, the condition of your internal organs throughout the day, which leg to amputate, which drugs would keep you alive, and what drugs would kill you, all resided in the patient’s chart. While stuck in the plastic bed with its rubber-lined mattress, you were held captive by your chart. You lived and you died by your chart, by the accuracy of yarn snippets that each rushed and sleep-deprived staff member spun into thread.
I wonder what my status report says today? Blood pressure: high. White blood count: low. Skin color: yellow. Stool: watery. Prognosis: terminal. Pancreatic cancer progressing. Latest CT scans indicate new skeletal metastases in vertebral column, liver and lungs. Delusions forming. Talks to himself. Heart-broken.
I don’t talk to myself…not really. I simply pass the monotonous day by talking to my roomie, and friend, the good ‘ol Sarge.
Joe turned his head slightly on the crinkly sweat-stained pillow.
You hear me over there, Whimpy? If I haven’t told you already, you’re a great listener. And so what if I talk to myself sometimes. I got to do something to pass the time. I’m going crazy trapped here in this bed, staring at the empty walls, beeping monitors, and puke green sheets…
Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the stupid dog. It was all the dog’s fault I say. Why anyone wants a pet that craps more than you do is beyond me. I guess if I wanted to be completely honest, that pug did grow on me...
Joe lifted his stiff shoulders in an attempt to form a shrug, which came off as a jerky twitch.
At least my dog didn’t bark so damn much.
Is it me, or is the dog dumb when it barks incessantly at the same people who walk the same fuckin’ path every day? I think the dog’s dumb. You see, there’s this collie-dog on the corner of Mission Gorge and Royal Drive, sporting a red and white bandana—a real cowdog if there ever was one—and every time I walked by, it would bark at me like I’m a killer. A killer! Humph! You would think after a few months, years even, that the dog would recognize me and believe that I am not going to waltz into his owners’ front door and shoot them point blank. What’s that? Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Watch what I say. The dog’s probably stressed out of its mind. Do dogs suffer cardiac arrest? If so, this dog better watch out, his days are numbered.
Sgt. Whimplestein’s chest gently rose and fell, providing comfort and a sense of rhythm to Joe’s rambling mind. Joe scanned the shelf and spotted a pumpkin card, eyeing it longingly. A knot formed in his throat and he stiffly grabbed for a cup of water that was generously poured by the lunch-time nurse. He swallowed the cool liquid. The burning knot eased away and he sighed in relief. Being on his deathbed, he appreciated life’s little enjoyments and viewed them as miniature blessings. Even his morning BM into the bed pan gave him a quiet satisfaction.
Halloween’s a funny time, don’t you think my friend?
Sgt. Whimplestein’s chest rose and fell, as if on cue. The constant whooshing sound intermingling with the beeping monitors had become background music for Room 301. Some days when the pain was too great, the noises dissipated into thin air and were replaced with the ringing in his ears. Other days the noises aggravated him like a pesky fly that hovered incessantly. Then there were those days when the noises were like lullabies, lulling Joe to sleep.
Tucked in the abrasive hospital sheets that scratched his skin raw, Joe nodded and licked his lips. The moisture from the measly cup of water had evaporated. His voice turned hoarse and throaty as he continued his mindless rants.
Yes, I mean, it is weird that during this time, and this time of year only, it is acceptable for people to buy a large piece of squash and dump it on their front porch to rot as part of their festive display declaring their neighborly camaraderie and participation. Tisk. Tisk. How dumb we must be to have carried on this ridunculous tradition for centuries. Don’t you think? Who believes in witches and evil spirits these days anyways? A squash isn’t going to ward off a damn thing.
Then there’s the issue of costumes. Kids, teens, and adults get all dolled up, enthusiastic to wear a mask and pretend they’re something they are not. Ha. Don’t they already do that in real life? Kids play pretend with their friends, teens pretend they’re adults, and adults put up a front at work and then another front at home. A person spends their entire life pretending; constantly switching masks to portray a different character while hiding their true unbridled identity. Is it fear that goads them down this ridiculous path? Shame? Both? I swear.
Anyways, I think subconsciously they think they want to be the “character” they’re portraying, but actually they are dressing up as a character that has been donned “popular” and “publicly approved” by their peers and society. Why women think being a slut and a whore is “publicly approved” is beyond me, but as the years pass the outfits get tighter and skimpier to the point that clothes will soon be discarded and deemed unnecessary. Maybe the next “cool” costume will be a nudist. Would that be legal? I don’t see a problem with that, especially, when they allow people to dress up in costumes that on any other day would be cause to toss them in a holding cell for the night.
What rubbish!
This topic raised a fire in Joe’s belly that jutted into his spine and flashed in streaks of burning pain. The rant concluded as incomprehensible sheets of noise blubbered from his foaming mouth. Thick, yellowish bubbles pulsed from the corners of his cracked lips and skimmed down his chin to pool in the crevice formed by his neck and pillow. The foul odor of vanilla pudding, corn mash, and bile settled disturbingly in the air.
A young nurse rushed in; the same one who made her daily routines at 1:00 P.M. Although the young nurse should have been familiar to Jo
e, the sudden change of routine startled him and his fit worsened. The young nurse looked distraught. Her light auburn hair was tied in a secure bun at the nape of her slender neck. Freckles splashed her thin face and her gray eyes widened in concern. Keeping her emotions in check, her lips stretched thinly across her pale face as her hands moved with practiced precision.
Following protocol, she immediately checked his vitals. Scanning his chart, she saw he wasn’t scheduled for his meds until the following hour. She delivered a small dose of morphine anyway to quell the breakthrough pain. Doctors weren’t the only ones who saved lives in this hospital. Not that she was ever recognized as a heroine. She was just one of many who hung in the background, silent and docile, while kept on the balls of her feet. But, she didn’t sign up for inhumane shifts and emotional abuse from doctors and patients alike for a measly pat on the back; she signed up for this job to help others in need, and that’s what she intended to do.
Punching in the prescribed dosage on the digital machine, she watched in awed satisfaction as the molecular miracles of modern medicine were set to work—drops of clear liquid moved from the machine to Joe’s arm in one effective loop of thin tubing. Joe’s quips died down. His jaw turned lax as the stream of milky saliva calmed to a slow trickle.
The young nurse jotted down the prescribed dosage and the time of injection in his chart, and then hung the clipboard back on the hook at the foot of his bed. She then closed the blue dividing curtain that separated Joe from Sgt. Whimplestein, to provide some semblance of privacy when the Sergeant’s granddaughter arrived for her daily visit.
After regaining the room’s sense of calm and order, she felt an immediate sense of accomplishment and returned to the break room down the hall where her chicken noodle soup cooled on the counter, her sizzling romance novel splayed face down beside it.
Detective Kylie Kang:
3:00 P.M.
I arrive at the hospital with a potted Chinese lantern plant hoping to brighten Gramps’ room. Walking into the bland, sterile room always irks me. The sour smells and drab appliances are unsettling. The fake wood veneer of the furniture adds not warmth, but hopelessness to the room.
The bed is positioned near the room’s only window, which would be auspicious if not for the rumpled plastic blinds that always seem to be drawn tight. A lacquered side table stands to the left of the bed, where my grandmother’s (Halmoni’s) picture is framed and kept beside Gramps’ head.
The lumpy green-vinyl chair where I spend many sleepless nights is tucked into the far corner of the room; again the orderlies have moved it away from the bedside position where I prefer it.
In the space separating Gramps and his roommate is an old television, a round white clock (running a few minutes slow), and a single laminate shelf that holds a growing collection of all the cards I’ve left for him throughout the years.
No fragrant bouquets of freshly cut flowers grace the room. No music, just the repetitive beeps from the obtrusive monitors that hover around both guests like overprotective parents.
I place the plant on the side table—turning the pot until its best side faces Gramps—and toss my bag onto the green chair in the corner. Quickly, I size up the room, noting the blue dividing curtain drawn tight, hindering passersby from gawking through the doorway and offering some semblance of privacy.
Gramps’ neighbor must be having one of his bad spells again. Unlike Gramps, the guy is reminded every second that he is dying. A nurse once informed me that the guy was terminally ill. Lying in bed with a pain so great that it rips through his body while the cancer eats away at his internal organs. He is being constantly poked and prodded, infused with dose after dose of morphine to ease the pain. I can’t recall a time when the curtain wasn’t pulled closed.
Although I wish I could hear Gramps’ deep baritone voice again, I’m glad he’s not aware of his surroundings. At least he is shielded from feeling any pain, of knowing what has become of him, of seeing what he no longer is. Some, I know, aren’t so lucky.
I fiddle with the position of the plant once more and then pull the drab uncomfortable chair from the corner. Before sitting down I open the window. Light streams in, and the cool breeze kisses my clammy face. The stagnant air in the hospital room always makes my head feel heavy and dull.
From this vantage point, I can see Grossmont Center to the left and 24-Hour Fitness straight ahead. Summer is here and people are desperately trying to get beach-bod ready. A group of women wearing spandex shorts and colorful sport tanks stride cockily out of the building, holding half empty water bottles and rolled up yoga mats. Their glowing faces are dewy with sweat and masked in waterproof makeup.
Whenever I get the luxury of spending an hour working on my glutes and abs, I sure don’t fuss around in skimpy tights and plastered makeup. What is it with these women? Oh yeah, I almost forgot about the gym’s two-way mirror—the viewing station—that separates the classroom from the weight room. Guys line the window as they pump their biceps with the largest dumbbells they can handle, thinking they’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone: revel in their own masculinity while also taking in the visual feast of downward dog on the other side. Without my binoculars to confirm, I bet those women aren’t wearing their wedding rings.
Pulling my eyes away from the window, I cross to Gramps’ left side and kiss his sunken cheek. The hard-cop demeanor I perfected at the Academy cracks when I look at his peaceful face.
As a rookie homicide detective for the San Diego Police Department, I have already witnessed my share of sadness and despair: victims mangled and abused, bodies tattered and splattered beyond recognition, and families of the deceased unable to string together coherent sentences. Give me the aftermath of horror any day; that, I can handle. But, the slow, desperate suffering I observe in the hospital is different. My vics are dead and gone by the time I meet them, murdered by someone that can be tracked and caught. Black-and-white, cause-and-effect. The logic and order of my job allows me to compartmentalize the startling brutality.
Here in the hospital, the patients suffer in plain sight from intangible ailments that commit their crimes—slowly, sadistically—with impunity. There is no perpetrator to lock up, no one to pay retribution for each death. This grayness defies my sense of order and affects me more deeply than the case files piling on my desk.
The simple fact of the matter is this: the hospital makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know how to act among the dying. I’d rather work among the dead.
After three years, my visits have become short and dutiful. With my busy schedule and discomfort around hospital smells, sounds, and sights, I can only handle a few minutes a day. The longer Gramps is in the hospital, the harder it is to make the time to visit. It isn’t like Gramps is awake and aware of my presence anyway; at least I hope not.
No longer is there anyone to judge or criticize. No longer is there anyone to confide in and weep with.
My hand drifts aimlessly to clutch the lotus pendant that hangs dutifully from my neck like a protective shield. A simple symbol—in Buddhism, the lotus flower represents fortune, purity, enlightenment, and faith—the pendant is the only object left tying me to my beloved Halmoni. Every time I need guidance, reassurance, or a belief to keep me grounded and safe, I find myself touching the pendant, and with it, I feel Halmoni’s warm presence.
Unlike my mother, Halmoni was a strong and loving woman who loved deeply and cared for and protected her own above all else. She showed her pride in an unspoken way that fostered respect and admiration.
Shaking myself out of the debilitating memories, I take a few minutes to fluff Gramps’ pillow, comb his scraggily white hair, and straighten his blanket. I again think of the pile of work sitting on my desk, illuminated by the lamp I probably forgot to turn off. The curved, brass desk lamp I received from Halmoni. The one that used to sit on Gramps’ desk at home, the house I’ll always think of as home.
I think of Gramps—leaned back in his beat-brown reclining c
hair, with his reading glasses on, taking in the newspaper by the light of that lamp—and smile.
Looking at him now, face ashen against the harsh light of the fluorescent bulbs, my heart aches for the man he once was, the hero, the man Halmoni knew and grew to love. Forcing back a tear, I sit still and hold his limp, spotted hand, remembering the man I also grew to admire and love.
It was because of the Korean War that they met. Halmoni and Gramps always told me the story like it was some sort of sordid fairytale.
The summer heat was stifling. Thick humidity conjured the angry mosquitoes in droves, attacking flesh as Picasso attacked a naked canvas, with fervor. The small country town of Pusan was clamoring with life. Women were busy outside tending to chores: washing laundry out on wooden platforms, kneeling and hunched, most with a child strapped to their bent back, making kimchi, bean paste, or washing vegetables in various plastic tubs and clay pots, and all while keeping their many kids in line. The men were out to work, some away serving their time with the Republic of Korea (ROK) army, and others drowning their sorrows and stress in rice wine at the many street markets that spotted the town. The children were either clinging to their mothers at home or dutifully attending class, donned in their starched black and white uniforms and bluntly chopped black hair, each looking exactly like the other down to their knee-high socks and spit-shined shoes.
It was like any other day, with the fully loaded buses and trains clogging the already smoggy air, the miles of endless farmland to be tilled, and the ever diligent poop-collector scouring the land with his high-pitched call, shovel, and bucket strapped to his back. What changed to tip the scale from the general humdrum of country life to sheer panic and public outcry, no one quite knows. It could be the dictator or self-proclaimed “God of North Korea” decided—like any narcissistic and arrogant ruler does from time to time—that his soldiers were ready to take over a nice chunk of land; in this case, the rest of the peninsula.