Deathbed ~ Carson Crosby

He didn’t make a lot of noise. Most men his age don’t, only emitting the occasional groan, complaint, or passing of gas. Despite his silence, his room made plenty of sound. A radio in the corner played Django Reinhardt’s Dream of You, which sounded heavenly paired with the watery rush of the Maine harbor from outside the open window. If he focused enough on those sounds, he could almost drown out the subtle, repetitive beep of his heart monitor.

In his younger years he was a fiery man, traveling around, making friends and enemies, taking every injudicious chance he could. The only thing that could tame him was a woman, one who he had married sixty-six years ago. But she had passed two winters ago, leaving him in the care of his granddaughter.

Most days he spent dwelling on his hatred of life. He had done well for himself when he was young, started a company and made plenty of money. Anyone that went to visit him knew so with just a quick glance at his home: a big white house surrounded by beautiful and ornate gardens, set on a flat hill not one hundred yards from the ocean. The only neighbors he had were a mile down the coast, and he had never learned their names. The inside of the house was just as ornate, with bear-skin rugs, mahogany cabinets, grand paintings, and hundreds of leather-bound books. None of this mattered to him now. His world which once was full of companionship and indulgence was now confined to a small white hospital bed in the sunroom of his house.

Today was the day. He knew it was. He could feel it coming up on him slowly, and knew he had watched his last sunrise.

But still, he took a small amount of comfort from the sea. He watched it from his bed, through the glass of the sunroom. When the weather was nice his granddaughter opened the window for him, so he could feel the breeze and smell the salty air. The door from the house opened and a beautiful young lady stepped into the sunroom.

“Grandpa, it’s nine-thirty,” she said. The man didn’t acknowledge that he had even heard her, he just stared out at the sea. The young woman grabbed a white remote and pressed a button, which slowly began to raise the old man’s bed, sitting him up. She motioned for the old man’s hand, which he raised slowly and shakily. In it she placed several pills, which he slowly moved to his face before dropping them in his mouth. She pushed the straw of a big plastic cup into his mouth, and he drank and swallowed the pills.

“Do you need to pee?” she asked him.

“What?” He asked in return.

“Do you need to pee?” she asked again, this time more articulated and louder.

“No,” he said, but he lied. The pain in his back and hips outweighed the discomfort of a full bladder.

“Okay then,” she said. “Call my name if you need me.” She turned to leave the room.

“Wait,” he said. She stopped and turned around, but he was still looking out the window, away from her. “What’s for lunch today?”

“Ham sandwich, mashed potatoes, and pudding,” she responded. The old man sat thinking for a second.

“Can you go in town to Callie’s, get me a bowl of that clam chowder I used to love?” He asked her.

“Grandpa, you know I’m not supposed to leave you alone,” she said. He slowly turned to look her in the eyes.

“Please,” he said.

“Grandpa, you know how…”

“I know, but it would mean a lot to me,” he said. His voice was hoarse and shaky. The woman looked down at the ground in thought.

“Okay,” she said. “But you have to promise me not to get up.”

“Promise,” he said.

“Fine. I’ll run and grab your soup. I’ll be back before eleven. Are you sure you don’t need to pee before I leave?”

“Certain,” he responded.

“Bye, I’ll see you later,” she said and she closed the door. The old man looked around the room, then back out to sea. It was a beautiful day, warm and breezy. A few moments later his peace was interrupted by the sound of a car starting. He listened to the car, hearing it pull out of the driveway and knowing that it was time to make his move.

He grabbed his blanket and uncovered himself except for his feet, which he could not reach. With either hand he grabbed a side of the bed to support himself, and began to slide his feet out of the covers, over the edge of the bed. Using all of his strength, he pivoted in such a manner that sat him up, with his feet on the ground.

The old man sat on the edge of his bed, catching his breath. After a moment he pushed himself up from where he sat, standing upright, balancing himself with one hand on the nightstand. He was very unstable, but it was his first time standing up unassisted since he was ninety. With his right hand he grabbed the IV that was in his left arm, and with a solid tug he yanked it out. A droplet of blood immediately formed on his skin, but he did not do anything about it. With the same hand he grabbed the wire that hung out from under his shirt, and pulled hard. The four little disks that had been stuck to his chest each came off and fell to the ground in a mess of wires, and as they did his heart monitor went from a steady beep to a continuous shrill tone. He slowly lifted one foot at a time, shuffling his way over to his walker, which was against the wall. It took some time, but he made it.

With his walker he turned around to face the other corner of the room, where his old writing desk sat. With each shaky step he grimaced in pain. His hips felt as though they were made with broken glass and rusty nails, but he pushed on to his desk.

Once there, he grabbed a pen and scribbled something down on a piece of paper, then turned to face the glass door that led outside.

Most days he never left the bed, and he wasn’t supposed to, but he had never been one for rules.

The old man made his way to the door and stepped outside. This was not done without difficulty. Once outside, he stopped to catch his breath, but he could feel it creeping up deep inside, so he made no haste and started toward the shore.

It was a beautiful walk from the house to the ocean, one he had made many times. There was nothing challenging about it for a regular person, but the old man struggled. With each step sharp pains shot up his legs, and with each labored breath his lungs seared. Still he pushed on.

The closer he got to the water, the less he could see. His vision was slowly turning black, and he couldn’t hear. He could feel his whole body shutting down, but he was close, so he continued. As the grass turned to sand it got harder to walk, and the wheels of his walker would not turn, so he had to lift it with each step. In front of him, no more than ten feet, was the rock he and his wife always sat on. He continued forward.

Once next to the rock, he turned and sat, sort of allowing himself to fall. As he sat on the rock, his vision cleared, his hearing returned, and his pain went away. He could see clearly now, clearer than he had in ten years. He could see the waves in front of him, and he heard the seagulls flying overhead. He breathed in the ocean air and felt the warm sun on his back. He sat, smiling, as he breathed his last breath and fell forward into the sand.

Inside, a bowl a clam chowder grew cold, sitting on an old writing desk next to a note that read:

I leave no deathbed