Sometimes things End
He waited for death.
It was a quiet wait, punctuated by the sound of the machine in the corner which beeped every so often. The pain in
leg which had let him know he was alive when he woke up these past eleven years was fading, so he had the
impression that it wouldn't be long now. He wished he knew what was next.
He opened a red-rimmed eye and peered out at his sterile hospital room. It was a small room, with a single chair, a
small TV on a swing arm and a night table. It was otherwise empty. He had hoped it wouldn't end like this since he'd
been five: dying alone in a small room, apparently forgotten. He'd been alone most of his life and hated it.
All his life he'd been a nice guy. He'd made friends easily, floating through social circles, and been the man "in the
know". And though he'd seized a few opportunities business-wise, he'd never been able to romantically. It was
psychological. So he'd been single and stayed single and laughed it off when asked, carousing with cohorts, clubbing
and party hopping to fill the space. But his home always felt cold and empty when he arrived at the end of a night.
It was the same feeling no matter the house, even with "company", because company was always temporary.
As the friends faded away with the responsibilities of life, relationships, children... work, his circle became smaller and
smaller through no fault of his own. A week ago he’d felt a pain in his side. He’d walked into the emergency room
four days ago. It felt like nobody had missed him.
The machine in the corner beeped and the nurse came in and checked the readings. She was a pretty girl and if he
had the strength he might have smiled at her. She finished her cursory inspection and he wondered if her life was
happy. He'd spent most of his making sure other people were happy. It was his nature and despite his best efforts
he had been unable to stop. He'd thought once it was God's purpose for him, and now he was hoping to get ask
God himself if he had been right.
He wished someone; anyone really, was there now. He was too tired to count ceiling tiles and so he tried to
remember the good times he'd worked so hard to have. He remembered a drink he'd once had in an airport
lounge. He remembered a piece of pie he'd eaten when he was five. The feel of a suit he'd once owned. A New Year's
Party where he’d danced with a stranger. His favorite car of the ones he’d owned. The satisfaction of earning his first
paycheck. The first time he saw her. The list was too short, his memory too bad.
He wanted to feel uncomfortable but couldn't. He hoped God wasn't too tall. He hoped when he reached wherever
he was going he got his appetite back.
He really wanted someone there. Just to stop by for a moment and let him know he had mattered. Five minutes.
Two minutes. He just wanted to know that life hadn't just used him, that he hadn't been just a cog, that he’d
mattered to someone.
A tear escaped the corner of his eye and rolled back towards his ear.
Sometime later a new nurse came by the check on him. Her feet hurt and when her shift was over she'd have to
buy groceries and make sure one of the kids had given the dog its pill. Next week she would have to get together
some money for a birthday party and call her sister about the insurance policy. She looked at this figure lying there
peacefully and checked the machine once again. She made a notation on his chart and left as quietly as she'd come,
turning off the room light as she went.
He lay there in the dark alone and waited. Waited patiently, like always, for death.
He waited for death.
It was a quiet wait, punctuated by the sound of the machine in the corner which beeped every so often. The pain in
leg which had let him know he was alive when he woke up these past eleven years was fading, so he had the
impression that it wouldn't be long now. He wished he knew what was next.
He opened a red-rimmed eye and peered out at his sterile hospital room. It was a small room, with a single chair, a
small TV on a swing arm and a night table. It was otherwise empty. He had hoped it wouldn't end like this since he'd
been five: dying alone in a small room, apparently forgotten. He'd been alone most of his life and hated it.
All his life he'd been a nice guy. He'd made friends easily, floating through social circles, and been the man "in the
know". And though he'd seized a few opportunities business-wise, he'd never been able to romantically. It was
psychological. So he'd been single and stayed single and laughed it off when asked, carousing with cohorts, clubbing
and party hopping to fill the space. But his home always felt cold and empty when he arrived at the end of a night.
It was the same feeling no matter the house, even with "company", because company was always temporary.
As the friends faded away with the responsibilities of life, relationships, children... work, his circle became smaller and
smaller through no fault of his own. A week ago he’d felt a pain in his side. He’d walked into the emergency room
four days ago. It felt like nobody had missed him.
The machine in the corner beeped and the nurse came in and checked the readings. She was a pretty girl and if he
had the strength he might have smiled at her. She finished her cursory inspection and he wondered if her life was
happy. He'd spent most of his making sure other people were happy. It was his nature and despite his best efforts
he had been unable to stop. He'd thought once it was God's purpose for him, and now he was hoping to get ask
God himself if he had been right.
He wished someone; anyone really, was there now. He was too tired to count ceiling tiles and so he tried to
remember the good times he'd worked so hard to have. He remembered a drink he'd once had in an airport
lounge. He remembered a piece of pie he'd eaten when he was five. The feel of a suit he'd once owned. A New Year's
Party where he’d danced with a stranger. His favorite car of the ones he’d owned. The satisfaction of earning his first
paycheck. The first time he saw her. The list was too short, his memory too bad.
He wanted to feel uncomfortable but couldn't. He hoped God wasn't too tall. He hoped when he reached wherever
he was going he got his appetite back.
He really wanted someone there. Just to stop by for a moment and let him know he had mattered. Five minutes.
Two minutes. He just wanted to know that life hadn't just used him, that he hadn't been just a cog, that he’d
mattered to someone.
A tear escaped the corner of his eye and rolled back towards his ear.
Sometime later a new nurse came by the check on him. Her feet hurt and when her shift was over she'd have to
buy groceries and make sure one of the kids had given the dog its pill. Next week she would have to get together
some money for a birthday party and call her sister about the insurance policy. She looked at this figure lying there
peacefully and checked the machine once again. She made a notation on his chart and left as quietly as she'd come,
turning off the room light as she went.
He lay there in the dark alone and waited. Waited patiently, like always, for death.
Sometimes it doesn't finish quite the way we planned. So that's why
we have to seize the day. Or so we tell ourselves.
we have to seize the day. Or so we tell ourselves.