A Moment

Recently, there was a new patient at the hospice. He was real sick, and we knew he could go at any time. His family was with him the day before, but had not made it to the house yet that morning.

He was sweating, his hospital gown wet, his face wet, his hair slick, so a nurse and I got a damp towel and began to wipe him down. Slowly, gently, we cleaned the sweat from his face and body, put a dry hospital gown on him, combed his hair, and put Vaseline on his dry, chapped lips. His neck and chest were burning hot, his feet were bricks of ice, and he was unresponsive, but still we talked to him. Told him what we were doing as we did it, said his name often, and we hummed, as we always do whenever a task or situation is grim.

I left to get some pillowcases to restock his room. We used the ones in his drawer to replace the sweaty ones from his bed. I was gone for maybe 30 seconds and when I came back in, he was dead. My eyes went directly to his chest; I held my breath and waited for it to rise. Sometimes, they trick you, you think it’s over, but after several long moments, you see and hear that ragged intake of air, and you know they haven’t left yet. Not true on this day. Gray-faced and completely still, he was dead.

Death is just a moment, sometimes captured, sometimes not.