FINAL MOMENTS
By Nidadavolu Malathi
*
Lying on the hospital bed, I’m staring at the ceiling fan, revolving incessantly. My past is whirling in my head.
I came to the States fifty years ago as an engineer at a time when women in my hometown barely finished high school. In that, I was a cut above. In the past fifty years I worked hard and became a success story. Now, it seems the end is nearing. The distinct line between my past and present, native soil and adoptive land is getting blurry by the minute.
White sheets, white pillowcases in a room painted white.
Doctors and nurses are moving around in white uniforms.
White, white, white. White everywhere but for the few flowers, somebody has brought for me, and a painting on the wall by an unknown artist. Probably donated by a starving artist at the turn of the century.
“Visitor for you. Says your best friend,” nurse in white uniform announces, struggling to speak perfect American English; obviously, an alien like me.
Best friend? Most of the people around here say ‘best friend’ without thinking twice.
I have heard it so many times …
“I like you very much.”
“I enjoy spending time with you.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Nice hair.”
“Nice shoes.” (If it were a man, “nice tie.”)
I try to utter the same phrases in Telugu. They are not sounding the same, actually, I am coming with hilarious idiom. Anyway, more relevant question is, do I have a best friend, really? What is friendship?
“Tell her this is not a good time,” I say to the nurse.
“She likes you very much, I think. Asked a lot of questions about you; said she’s your best friend.”
I am not in a mood for visitors. I shake my head no. I do not want any visitors.
“All right. I’ll tell her that you’re sleeping.”
In my life, I have never been short for friends; as for best friends, there is no telling. So many of them swore that I was like a mother or a sister to them and then stabbed me in the back. My hair turned gray but I never learned the lesson. Each and every time, I trusted them and then got hurt. Therefore, now I don’t have a friend. I live in a shell I’ve built for myself, on my own.
*
What will happen after my death?
Who’ll be coming to pay their final respects?
What happens to the dead body?
Up until now, I
never entertained such thoughts. My good old friend Holly comes to my mind. She
was curious about our customs and traditions. She turned forty when she was
diagnosed with cancer. After that, she lived for about four years. Most of that
period, she was forced to deal with doctors, tests, medications, more tests, experimental
drugs and diet requirements. Then she moved to
Holly came to my town a couple months prior to her death. She wanted to say final goodbye to all her friends here. At the time, it did not occur to me but what is it like to know in advance that one will die at a specific time? Can I call it a blessing for anyone to beware of impending death in advance, and subsequently carry out a few of his or her wishes in a timely fashion? What would I have done if I had known that my mother would die on the day she did? What would anybody do under the circumstances?
Holly came to my town, with death on her mind. But was she really convinced, I mean completely, that she was going to die? Wasn’t there a ray hope that some miracle cure would come to her rescue and defer if not avoid death?
Wonder where is Maya now? Maya enjoys telling everybody that she was a great friend of Holly. In fact, she calls everybody her best friend. As always, she had heard of my solitary life. That’s it. She kept badgering me that I should not be alone; that I should go to parties, movies, concerts, … She nearly killed me with her over concern for my peace and happiness. I could never convince her that I had my own way of entertaining myself.
During Holly’s last visit, I asked her if she would like to see Maya one more time. Holly laughed, folded her two hands in namaste, even in her feeble state, and said, “I am begging you, not Maya, not now. Please, don’t even mention to her that I am here.”
After two months, another friend called me and gave me the news; Holly had passed away. The friend also told me that she and few friends of Holly were planning to honor her memory on the following Sunday. I assured her I would be there.
On the said Sunday, I dragged myself to the meeting place rather unwillingly however. The gathering must be quite big, the entire street was filled with parked cars. I had to park mine on the next street. It was a cold winter evening. I locked the car and started walking toward the building, while pondering over Holly’s life. I know most of the people would want to say something about her brains, kindness, compassion, hopes and dreams. What can I say? But then again, would Holly know whether I said something or not? Would she care? Isn’t it common knowledge that she never enjoyed this kind of meeting? The one question that kept coming back to me was: Is Holly aware of these mundane ceremonies? Is it possible?
I arrived at the door; the porch was strewn with shoes. There was a note requesting the guests to leave their shoes outside. I bent and reached to untie my shoes. And then I looked up into the room.
Maya was speaking. She was speaking in a choked voice and wiping tears. She was recounting her friendship with Holly, the unique bond they had, the places they had visited and the discussions they had had over the years …
Suddenly, I felt a bad taste in my mouth; felt submerged in a huge wave of despair. I returned home; almost rushed home. I sat down reading the 15th chapter of Bhagavad-gita, she was so fond of. It felt good, as if she was sitting next to me.
The nurse walks in with my medication and water.
“You’ll be all right, okay!” she says reassuringly.
I nod. I watch
her inanely. I know this is all part of an act, like Shakespeare or
I am not scared.
No fear of death.
Only waiting for death.
And the wonder of what might happen after death.
Such things never bothered me. I recall the stories I have read in my teen years. Most of the stories ended with death. Now, it is amusing to me. Will the life end in death? What about all the others whose lives are intertwined with one person or other? How often the lives of all the others change with the existence or disappearance of that one person?
Probably it is
not the case here in the west. Here each individual is more focused on his or
her own existence: How long will I live? How best can I live? And how young
can I make myself look?
But then, what did I accomplish in my life? Wealth, material possessions, family, children, friends, and even acquaintances came and gone one after another. Just like the floating straws down the stream. It does not matter anymore whether I live or die. If I survive, possibly the same experiences repeat for a second time.
I smile as I recall an old joke:
A patient went to a doctor for surgery.
The doctor said, encouragingly, “Don’t worry. I am very good at this. I perform ten surgeries a day. My success rate is nine out of ten.”
The patient asked timidly, “That’s good, sir. How many surgeries have you done today?”
“Nine.”
Well, you can guess what happened after that.
People in the room are busy with their duties or thoughts. They don’t notice my chuckle; no time to look at my face.
One more trip down the memory lane and possible scenarios, if I were in my native town. The possible dialogue heard in the hospital room.
“Did she write the will?”
“Nope. We tried to explain to her, pretty much like teaching a parrot. She wouldn’t listen.”
“That’s what I call stupidity. Now, what shall we do, in case a decision needs to be made.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, with the body. Things like keeping the body, and if so, for how long, and so on.”
“Sh. Not so loud. She can hear it.”
I’ve heard them. No, they don’t have to keep my body, don’t have to wait for anybody. How can they understand my position? One of our neighbors back home once mentioned how hard it would be to keep a dead body in our country; to get somebody to watch the body from bugs. I felt sick in the stomach as he rambled on the detailed description. I ran away from the scene.
Now I know all these people around me have the same thought, maybe not in the same language but the questions are very similar. I also know preserving a body in this country is a lot easier. Let’s not talk about the cost though.
It’s not just that. After I am gone, there is no “I” and so this body is not “mine”. My first time at a wake in this country was quite an eye-opener. It was arranged in a funeral home. The dead man’s wife and son stood next to the casket. The visitors formed a line and walked up to them, shook hands with the son and hugged the wife; each one of them said the same words, “I am so sorry.” Then it was my turn. I walked up to them and followed the protocol.
But the thing that surprised me most, almost shocked, was the dead body. He (it?) did not look lifeless. He could have been to a celebration party somewhere and returned a few minutes ago for all I could see. It took me a few days to understand that it was because of the “preparation of the body” by the funeral director per local custom. For some reason, I could not relate to the somberness. I never went to another wake again.
Holly said, “There are 270 body parts usable for other patients.” That’s what I want to do, I want to tell them, use the usable parts. Please, no memorial service for me, and don’t say things simply because that is the right thing to do.
I think I screamed something to that effect. The doctor quickly hops to my bedside and taps on my arm. “Calm down. Calm down. Tension is not good for your lungs,” he says.
Doctor Sobhan Babu* holds my wrist, and feels the pulse, while throwing side glances at nurse Ramaprabha*.
“Doctor babu, you’re holding my hand, not hers,” I mumble, chuckling. What can I say! Each has his or her own priorities.
The nurse signals toward the ECG machine. On the blue screen, the cardiograph, which should be recording the tidal waves of my breath, is running a straight line, as if showcasing my luck.
Suddenly, there is a commotion in the room, scurrying everywhere. Another machine is rolled in quickly.
Senior doctor rushes into the room. “What next?” a resounding question permeates the room. Somebody suggests flying in a specialist from god knows where.
They are all anxious to keep me alive.
For the doctor, it is a matter of prestige as well.
They’re struggling as time steals by. Finally, the moment has come. The doctor clucks his tongue and drops my wrist.
“Sorry,” he says.
An orderly, resembling Raj babu* comes in, looks at the bankrupt faces of the doctor and the nurse and dashes out of the room.
Another nurse comes in, throws away the flowers and takes away the vase. Of course, it can be used for another patient in another room.
Hey, wait. What? What’s happening? How come nobody is speaking to me? Tell me, what happened? Am I screaming or is it just my imagination, I am not sure.
Nobody seems to care what I have to say. I slip into my hometown scenario again.
“Poor thing. One day shy of being centenarian. Dactar Saar! can’t you keep her alive just for one more day?”
I am smiling to myself. I am one day short of one-hundred years old!
“That’s wonderful I suppose. Still she lived a great life as long as she lived.”
I remember the folk song, guTiloni chilaka egiripoye. guDu chinna boyeraa! The bird flew away leaving the nest is empty.
Hum. That’s all there is to it. So, I am dead. Didn’t hurt, not even a bit. I never thought dying was so easy! But then, I can still hear their voices? How come? The room is bursting with white light; things are looking hazy. Am I seeing clouds too?
Somebody asks somebody else, “What next?”
Does that mean they’re waiting for the Lord of Death? Why delay? Are the cronies of the Lord lost for want of proper directions? Unsure whether I should be sent to the heaven or hell?
That’s surprising. Well, I am not even sure whether I am capable having such feelings. But something tells me that I am surprised. That is because I’ve been thinking all along that the account—the consequences of good and bad deeds—is settled right away on earth. I also thought that that is the reason we make vows to Lord Venkanna or Goddess Poleramma and pay our dues in a timely fashion. ..
A nurse comes and pulls the white sheet over my face.
“Stop, wait. I can’t breathe,” I try to stop her.
Ha, I am feeling my hands. So, I do have hands, and also I am aware that I have hands. Does that mean I have a heart too? I put my right hand on my chest and felt the heartbeat! Lo and behold, I do have a heart and it is beating like the little engine that could!
I burst into a big laugh, holding the ECG tubes in my hand and waving them in the air.
But my hometown folks will not let me be. I hear their voices again.
“Don’t laugh, my boy. It is bad manners.”
“I did not laugh, mom.”
“Don’t lie, dear. That is not good manners.”
“I did not lie, mother.”
“Then who laughed so loud?”
“Grandma laughed. Look.”
“No, my boy, grandma cannot laugh any more. She is with god now. Bless her soul.”
“You look at her.”
They all turn around to look at me. I am still laughing and waving the ECG tubes. The doctor gawks at the nurse. His face turns pale. He is not sure whether he should be sorry that he was mistaken or happy that he’s got a second chance to recover his prestige, save his reputation.
He jumps to my bedside and reattaches the tubes properly.
Okay, now I know I am not dead. The people around me are not the mercenaries of Lord of Death. The doctor does not look like Sobhan Babu anymore, nor the nurse like Ramaprabha. I must stop watching movies, I murmur to myself.
Also, there is one more thing I must do, call the lawyer and draft my will at once.
*Popular movies stars in the
fifties in