I'm sitting here in the cool dawn. It's hazy, pastel, tentative. Beautiful swells, perfect for surfing, crashing all down in a line. White foam on the crest; white lace tracing up their undersides and thickening along the shore. Black silhouette of palms and cyprus against the pale sky. Gold Coast coffee from my Starbucks run; chilly car; quiet cul-de-sac above the cliffs of Shell Beach. Funny all I can think to do is write.
And Netto's dead. Dear God. What a night. Stifle the emotion I have from seeing someone die--and not just anyone, but my very own Netto. I didn't see her die, to be honest. That's part of my trauma. I was listening to music. I heard her moaning--like she always does; gagging--like she always does. Very unnerving to sleep with. That's why I hadn't gone to sleep yet, and also why I had music on. "Are you okay sweetie? How you doing?" I asked lazily. Why didn't i get up? Well she got sick apparently--that dark green stuff that's been building up in her and which makes the whole room smell sickly sweet of rot. She got sick, and I didn't hear it. And I didn't know when she breathed her last, except it must have been right before I checked her. I got up to get ready for bed, took a look at her still, yellow, face. Dear God. She looked slightly worse than before, but I talked to her anyways. "Hi sweetie! I love you! How you doing? Poor baby. I love you!" The usual cooing sing-song I use with babies. It didn't take me long to realize that she apparently wasn't breathing.
But perhaps it was just faint, shallow--like I had never seen her breath before. Until this point her breathing was incredibly labored and as wet as if she had a bad case of pneumonia. Dear God. I walked around her and bent over her. No sign of breath. I put my hand on top of the blankets. Was it moving? Was that her pulse or my own? Numb. Not much emotion--thank God. I pulled the blankets back and put my hand on her chest on top of only the nightie. She was very warm. Very, very warm. I imagined my own pulse was hers, and went to get the nurse because she needed new linens from getting sick. That and...well...I wasn't seeing much in the way of breath.
Surfers going out on the water now. Sky lightening in a subtle, unimpressive sunset. Anti-climatic. You expect the sun to come in all its glory and instead it slips into our world and behind a cloud that shields it from my view. It's lighter, it's different, but instead of a show--a silence.
Well I went to get the nurse, and she came in and looked at her. Put gloves on and felt her pulse. Put her hand on her chest. "I don't think--I think she has--"
"You mean she's stopped breathing?" I asked, quite stupidly. I couldn't quite grasp what she was saying even at the same time as I knew it for myself. I felt a panic rising in my throat.
"I don't see any sign of life. Her chest is not rising and falling. I'll have to call the doctor to confirm." Fight the panic. Fight the panic. Get a grip. This all isn't real, after all.
"You mean she's passed away?" I was surprised at how deadpan I sounded, :She....she has that look." I ventured. Even if you've never seen death before it is not hard to recognize. "How long will it take the doctor to come? Should I call my mom?"
"It's not official until the doctor comes, but she's not breathing and that's a pretty sure sign to me."
I could have sworn I saw her chest moving. And then the next second I knew it was my imagination. I felt unusually calm, but I kept staring at her, at her blanketed chest, at the open, triangle-shaped mouth sapped of every bit of moisture and now of life too. It didn't feel like I was looking at a dead person. I couldn't fathom that thought in my own head, even while I couldn't help but dwell on it. I unplugged my laptop charger, and began to wind the cord up. "I suppose I should go home?" I said to no one in particular. It was 12:30am. I'd been ready to sleep since 11.
"The doctor won't be here for at least an hour," the nurse told me.
"Are you pretty sure? Should I call my parents or wait 'til the doctor gets here?"
"I'm pretty sure." The nurse said.
There's a surfer out in my view now. Silky, metallic waves. They're awfully big--I mean, compared to how they look from here when no one's there to show up the size of them. Really big, powerful, cold. They're definitely over my head. Cold and fathomless and mysterious. I can see the silvery cold surface--but there's a whole world beneath that is out of sight. A cold world not made for human beings and human breath.
So I called my mom. The doctor came in to ask if they had made funeral arrangements, and the nurse asked me if they intended to take it to a morgue. "It." Brrrr. Netto always said I would be a writer. Funny that's all I want to do right now. That water merely looks cold; I don't think I'll surf today.
The nurse had me fill out some paperwork. Initial that, yes, she truly was dead. Then there was the debate--really an awful debate--of whether I should go home that night. I didn't think I'd have a problem with falling asleep....but that four hours of dark aloneness. That four hours of rigid control of emotion and thought. Of course I hadn't touched a dead person. Only her nightie. Father this is too much all at once. Fire and water. And alone. So horribly alone.
Pale, lavender sky of sunrise.
The surfer just got caught in a barrel. Crash. Wipeout. Oops.
So I packed up, alone in the room with her. It wasn't creepy at all, though something kept telling me it should be. It took me awhile. I prayed, I talked to Mom and Pop; tried to figure out how to carry everything. I'm getting the heck out of here, I told my mom. Ya I had a doctor's appointment the next morning for myself. But right now? 8 hours alone waiting in a dark car or a cold lobby while Netto lay dead upstairs? Ugh. Shudder. "Come home," Mom said.
"Um. Goodbye. Thank you for all you've done in taking care of her." I told the nurses. I knew a few of them pretty well by now. Lived practically with them long enough, for goodness' sake. They knew I was polite unless they forgot the pain meds.... and then I was relentless--polite but unyielding. Barring the East German one. She knew I could lose my temper too. Only in good cause. At least she hadn't forgotten again, and she'd stopped being so fricken' rude. Inexcusable. I'd never thought of anger as a tool before. It's very effective, if you have right on your side. But now it's all over. And it doesn't matter anyways. I walked away from the cancer ward and out in to the cold night air. A shock. Maybe all this was real, after all. Dang, that meant I actually could die if I crashed.
The ocean is washed out to an almost white surface. The mountains are a fine, pale print of dusty color on the horizon, almost the same value as the watercolor sky. The colors are delicate and understated...not at all what I expected. Somehow I thought Netto's death would be more impressive too. I mean, Jesus was in the room. Jesus was in the room and I didn't even stand up. Didn't realize it beyond the familiar sense of peace that I have felt many, many times in that same room. It saved me from the panic welling up inside me all afternoon. And I thought that was just because I prayed--like every other time. But it is light, and the peace was the same, even if the change was unimpressive and imperceptible. The sun has come. The Son has come. The surfer's reflection on the water when he catches a wave is almost perfect. Mysterious beneath once again hidden by a beautiful surface. The waves are a bit smaller, but my life right now is way too big for me.
Please God. Let her be in Heaven!
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