Part 19 (1/2)

I try to get it down. As I'm looking at what I'm writing, I see that it's not making sense. I'm not writing in English. Whatever marks I'm making on this paper are not anything that another person could read. I focus on catchphrases, I draw pictures, I try to make a map-I am all over the page, hoping I can clean it up later. He's going on and on, and right when we get to what I think would be the end, the denouement, the guy sits bolt upright. ”I'm not breathing,” he says.

I push the call b.u.t.ton. ”He's not breathing,” I shout. ”He's going from pale pink to deep red, kind of purple.”

Soon the room is filled with people. ”We were in the middle of a conversation, he was coming to the punch line, and then, suddenly, he sat up and said, 'I'm not breathing.'”

Now he's sputtering, choking, in trouble, and more people come, and it's like an audience. They're all standing there watching the guy.

”Are you going to just watch or are you going to do something?” I ask.

”There's nothing we can do,” the nurses say.

”Of course there is,” I say.

”He's DNR. Do Not Resuscitate.”

He wanted to die a good death. But look at him. He's struggling like he's choking to death.

”We know not when or how we will be called home,” one of them says, and then they whip the curtain between the beds closed.

”That is not okay,” I say, hauling my damaged self out of the G.o.dd.a.m.ned bed and peeling the curtain open.

He's bucking and heaving and seems to be begging for someone to do something. Despite the tangle of EKG wires hanging off my chest and my double IVs, I get close to him, my exposed a.s.s edging the nurses out of the way. And in my mind he's telling me to sock it to him, so I do. I give him one h.e.l.l of an uppercut, slamming him in the gut with all I've got.

His mouth drops open, his teeth come flying out, and he gasps for breath. ”f.u.c.king dentures almost killed me,” he says.

”You said you didn't want to be resuscitated,” the nurse says, indignantly.

”I didn't say I wanted to choke on my own G.o.dd.a.m.ned teeth.”

”I thought it was an embolism. Did you think it was an embolism?” one nurse says to another.

”Do me a favor, send me home, where at least I can shoot myself when I'm ready.”

”Would you like me to call someone?” the nurse asks.

”Like who?”

”A representative of the hospital? Case-management personnel, the patient advocates? A doctor? You tell me.”

”Start at the top and work your way down,” he says. ”And change my forms immediately. Clearly you don't know the meaning of DNR.”

Half an hour later, a woman comes with the forms rescinding the DNR order. ”It can take a while before the change makes its way into the system, so how about I put a sign on your door.”

”Do what's necessary,” the man says.

”PLEASE SAVE THIS MAN,” the woman writes on the dry-erase board mounted on the door that already lists our names and that we're IN DANGER OF FALLING/USE PRECAUTIONS.

In the middle of the afternoon, the pet person comes back, with photos of Tessie and the cat sitting on George and Jane's sofa next to some nice-looking young fellow. ”You're squared away,” she says happily.

The cop from the park comes-he's in uniform and carrying an FTD Big Hug bouquet-flowers with a stuffed bear clinging to the side of the vase. ”Listen, I want to apologize-I treated you badly, you deserved better.”

”Okay,” I say.

The cop sits on the edge of my bed, and we make small talk, and then, when there's really nothing more to say, he tells me that he'll come back again another day.

”That was painful to watch. He must be in the program,” the roommate says when the cop is gone.

”What program?”

”One of the twelve steps-This-Anon, That-Anon, Everything-Anon-Anon. Step number nine is making amends for the harm you caused.”

”Interesting,” I say. I'm tempted to tell him my story of cras.h.i.+ng the AA meeting, but, given how much he knows about these steps, some things are better left unsaid.

When dinner arrives, there's nothing for him.

”Nothing?”

”I don't have you down for any meals, but I might be able to get you a liquid tray,” the delivery woman says.

I lift the insulated cover off my plate and find the main dish unrecognizable.

”What is it?” I ask.

The delivery woman peers over. ”That would be our chicken Marsala.”

”I'm dying,” my roommate says. ”I have got no intention of drinking my last meal unless it's very good Scotch.”

”How about some carry-out menus from the nurses' station? They're always ordering in.”

”That would be great.” He's suddenly pleased; more than pleased-inspired.

I put the cover back on my plate to keep the fumes from escaping and wait to see what happens next.

”What do you want for dinner?” he asks as he's going through the menus.

”Anything but Chinese.”

Excited, he pulls his cell phone out from where it's been hidden under the covers and starts dialing. His ability to move is limited, but he's on a mission. First he calls the burger place and orders two cheeseburger deluxes with fries and extra pickles, then the pizza place for a medium pepperoni pie, the deli for some rice pudding and cream soda. I ask him to have them throw in a couple of Hershey bars with almonds. And when the deli guy says it's a minimum of twenty dollars to deliver, he tells the guy that he'll give him a fifty-dollar tip if he also stops at the liquor store for a very specific bottle of Scotch. The man says he'll do the job himself.

”So what if I order more than I can eat? I'm dying, I don't have to worry about leftovers. Is there anything special I can get you, something you've been dying for, no pun intended?” the roommate asks me.

I used to like caviar, fresh-made cheese blintzes, chocolate eclairs, and there was that doughnut I ate maybe forty years ago that I can't ever forget, an orange cruller on a cold morning outside a polling place during the 1972 presidential election that was as close to perfection as any food can be. But the fact is, I'm lying in a hospital bed and am not exactly feeling any kind of culinary craving. ”Thanks,” I say, ”but I'm good with whatever you choose.”

We wait. Will they remember to bring ketchup and mustard? Should we call back for mayo? We share a reverie about our love of mayonnaise, and he asks, Have I ever had Belgian French fries and dipping sauce, well done, salted and piping hot? Yes, I have, and his description of them is enough.

It takes longer than you'd think. There's a hospital to be navigated, security procedures downstairs-do they make them open the cheeseburgers?-elevators, corridors.

”Can you get my pants out of the closet?” the roommate asks. I get up slowly and make my way to his closet, dragging my IV pole and wires and my left foot, which doesn't seem to be fully functional. ”Look in my pocket.”

His pockets are loaded with cash, wads of twenties and a wallet filled with travelers' checks, euros, and English pounds.