The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Twenty Sounds Teal

Some jobs they couldn't pay you to do. So they don't. Jobs like chatting with dying people. That's where the volunteers came in. Comfort. Support. A sympathetic ear. With luck, even an empathetic ear. I assume the other volunteers in the hospice were inspired by compassion. That wasn't entirely the case with me. At least not at the start. No, I also thought it could be a nice break. Course I didn't say that to the two hospital officials who interviewed me. Not sure exactly what they were looking for but they might as well have been dogs searching for a ball lost in a bush. I know cause the interviews were conducted outside the hospice and I could see what they were really saying. One was a clunky calculator with softening brown shades of accountancy. Some sort of hospital administrator. The other was drab gray with morose trimmings. A nurse who'd been left on the vine too long perhaps? So my interview went swimmingly. I exaggerated a little about my motivations and they exaggerated a lot about caring. What they really wanted was someone with lots of spare time. Which I had. Who responded to texts diligently. Ditto. Who had recent experience with the deceased. Preferably there. Bingo! Some perfunctory legal/ethical training and I was on the ward. No uniform necessary. It was come as you are.

The staff were a different animal. They were unionized so I suspect they actually cared or they probably wouldn't have been there. And they had me at a disadvantage since we mostly spoke out by the front desk in more normal tones. They were business like. Which was confusing. I could see words but just barely. Not completely blind but with cataracts. Blurry. I was never sure how to react whenever they quizzed me about patients. Was I just being paranoid? Had they seen through me? Had they guessed my ulterior motive? I managed it the way a monarch manages parades - smile, wave, move on. Seemed to work. The patients, on the other hand, were always just perfect. No colors. No shapes. Nutin' honey. Imminent death had somehow conferred plain speech. And a surprising number were dying alone. Or almost. A sad bonus.

The very first one almost freaked me out. Just as I walked into the room it hit me. This was where my wife had died. That very room. In that very bed. Kind of shock that sends the heart headed for the north door. There was an old woman with stringy white hair lying right where she had been. Her eyes were closed. Her lips parted. Marble complexion. Looked like she was already gone. I was just about to back out when she opened her eyes and rolled them my way.

"Hi," she croaked. A nice, clean croak.

"Hi," I replied.

"Come over here." She motioned to me with an emaciated arm. "Sit down."

I did. The very same place, the very same chair I had before over ten excruciating days and nights.

"You one of the volunteers?"

"Yes."

"Good. Thank God you're not with that dog. He keeps trying to bring it in here. I hate fucking dogs."

"Ah, yes. Well, I guess some people like it. Find it comforting. So, how you feeling?"

"Like crap. You're never disappointed in this place. Do me a favor will ya. Go tell them I need my next shot?"

She turned her head and closed her eyes again leaving me superfluous. I hustled out like someone had pulled a fire alarm. It was freaky. Right where I had last seen my wife. In that same bed. Just lying there. Hadn't quite expected that but should have. Stirred coals still too hot to touch. But when I thought about it for a bit later I realized I was right about one thing. That poor woman's words had proved it. This was going to be a book, not a movie.