Big, bulky thing

"There used to be a very large, bulky thing over there, but I can't for the life of me remember what it was," said Pam, pointing at the stark, empty bed across the room from her. "Now, I know my grandmother died, but I don't think that was it."

That, mercifully, is what she remembers of my father's death at that given moment. Later, in a few minutes, she would remember it was Dad, and weep softly, saying she must have done something terribly wrong, because it wasn't supposed to happen this way.

I try to comfort her, but I'm not much help at all. I'm usually dry-eyed around her, but I am also horrified at the sight across the room. No photos on the wall. The drape around his bed open, baring the emptiness that's in both of us left behind. My arm's around her, and I say something about her hair, and thankfully, that gets her off into another direction of conversation entirely.

I'd stayed at his side pretty late Friday night, but finally went home to try to get a couple of hours sleep. Sure enough, I got the call around 3:45 a.m. on Saturday. Mechanically, I jumped out of bed and headed for the bathroom to brush my teeth. That's when the shaking started. Aim; aim, dammit! I could hardly keep the brush in my mouth. I remember that the first thing I wanted to do, was to call my dad to tell him. Tell him something tragic had happened, but then, he already knew.

So, instead, I called Bruce. He said he'd be down there later. I left the house in the pouring rain and about halfway to the nursing home, it was raining inside the car, too, but not for long. I had to face the music.

They'd already called the mortuary. There was something slightly resembling my dad, a very large bulky thing, on the bed. I knew they expected me to look at him, to do something like pray over him -- something out of character for both of us.

"Look, he's still warm," Nurse Debbie said, trying to be comforting. I looked across the room, and Pam was sleeping soundly, partially because she'd had a painkiller earlier.

I touched his shoulder and said, "Goodbye, Dad," but he wasn't there at all, and we both knew it. This was just what was expected of me. She asked about his wedding ring and told me I should take it and his watch.

Great; now I'm taking jewelry off a dead man. I very gently tugged at the ring, which has been getting so loose over the past months, we've had to put a pound of tape around it. Now, his finger is swollen, and it doesn't want to come off. I had to tell myself it wouldn't hurt him; I could pull harder, and it would be alright. Feeling like a grave robber, I looked at the inscription: "Bill and Pam forever." No wonder, I thought as I shoved it into my pocket with his watch.

Grabbing my fifteenth cup of coffee since the previous evening, I sat in a chair next to Pam and waited for them to come and get Dad. It was supposed to be within the hour, but it was closer to two. Pam snored, and I was glad. I clicked the mute button on the TV and operated the remote like a professional; I don't have cable, so whenever I get around it, I can't settle on anything. Flip, flip, flip. All I could do, was wait and hope Pam didn't wake up. I marched back and forth from the coffee station.

This will be over; it won't last forever; I can get through this.

Finally, a guy just past his teens showed up at the front, wearing a black suit and looking solemn. He said a few words to the nurse, and then headed towards me, hand outstretched. Mr. Death comes in a younger package than I'd suspected, I thought.

They wrestled behind the closed curtain around Dad's bed like fighting puppets, and finally I heard the zip of a body bag. So did Pam, and she woke up.

I held her while they finished and wheeled him out. She knew what had happened, and cried quietly. I asked Debbie to give her "something for her arthritis," and thankfully, she did. Pam soon fell asleep and I went home, stunned. I couldn't even tell my best friend, because he's gone now.

So, this is it. This is what happens: Your loved one gets zipped up and carried out, and then you stare at an empty bed for days until they put someone else in there to distract you.

I hope for Pam's sake, it's very, very soon.