Broken by recent tragedy, Joanna is a young woman headed down a destructive road. Bruce is a dying man with nothing to lose, except his darkest secret.
Excerpt
To look at Mr. O, he was harmless. I suppose we all
are in the end. The last night I saw him, he was lying
on a big burgundy sofa, underneath a monstrous pile
of blankets. Mr. O was pretty stoic about pain for someone with
terminal lung cancer. Coldness, on the other hand, he would yell
and scream about being cold, no matter how many blankets you
piled on him. I remember he always had his television turned
on, with the volume all the way down. He never paid any
attention to it, but I knew better than to turn it off. With Mr. O,
you quickly learned to abide by his rules, else face his wrath.
His full name was Bruce Kenneth Ostermann. I think the
aides started calling him “Mr. O” to try to be more casual and
friendly, since he was just the opposite. Most of our staff truly
disliked coming to his apartment, especially those of us who
were anything other than pure Caucasian like him. He was
cruel, verbally abusive, and an unabashed racist. He was even
crude and sarcastic with our hospice chaplain. I really tried to
be a compassionate nurse with him, especially since there is no
telling how I myself will act when the time comes. But he was
hard to deal with. That last night, he was ashen and gaunt,
swaddled in his big patchwork quilts, shivering.
“Goddamn it, I am COLD! What, did you turn on the
goddamned air conditioner in here? Hey! Big Bertha. I’m
talking to you!” A nasal cannula snaked from his nares to his
neck, across the quilts and the burgundy sofa, and down to a
humming oxygen machine on the floor. It took him a while to
catch his breath when he yelled.
I sometimes wonder whether patients like Mr. O were
always so miserable. I usually meet people so late in life’s
journey; it is hard to tell for sure. Some dying patients seem
desperate for some semblance of control, since they no longer
have control over staying alive. Then there’s dementia, organic
brain disease, and of course, people can’t be held accountable
for their behavior in those situations. But I have taken care of
patients who were sweet, no matter how much they suffered. It
makes me wonder if a person’s true personality emerges when
they are the most stripped down and vulnerable. Whatever the
reason, I am certain Mr. O had always been a mean person. The
best indicator of one’s character is whether anyone cares enough
to sit by him when he’s on his deathbed. Mr. O never had a
single visitor.
“Nurse,” Mr. O croaked, eyeing my name badge.
“Shahi…whatever the hell your name is. You people and your
made-up bullshit names.” He squeezed his eyes shut, attempting
another cough. “Please go into my bedroom closet. There is a
brown metal box on the top shelf. Bring it to me. And you’d
better find my lighter, or else! I know one of you people took
it.”
Or else what? I remember thinking, stifling a giggle. “It’s
pronounced Sha-hi-da. It has been around much longer than
your name. Anyway, I will get your box for you, Mr. O. But no
lighter. You know you can’t smoke cigarettes anymore.”
“Well, what the hell does it matter now? My lungs are
already shot.” I went to his closet and pulled down the brown
metal box. I remember that when I brought it to him, he
snatched it from me with a strength I did not realize he still had.
He started to open the rusted latch, then stopped and leered at
me suspiciously.
“Do what you have to do, Nurse. Then please leave.” Mr. O
had a loud rattle after every breath. He set the mysterious box
on a little table next to the couch. I listened to his lung sounds.
Diminished/crackles bilateral bases, expiratory wheezes
throughout. Nebulizer treatment given, I documented on his
chart. I read through his history while administering his
breathing treatment.
PHYSICIAN’S NOTES: Positive for tobacco abuse, two to
three packs per day times approximately forty years. Denies
ethanol or illicit drug use. Patient was working as a truck
driver until his first hospitalization for shortness of breath, with
subsequent diagnosis of advanced inoperable non-small cell
carcinoma of the lung. Patient is not married, and does not
have any children. Patient states he has no living relatives.
Patient is noted to be a veteran of the armed services. He will
be referred to a VA facility pending bed availability. Discussed
poor prognosis with patient, recommend hospice care…
Mr. Ostermann inhaled the nebulizer vapors the best he
could, periodically coughing up dark bloody yellow sputum into
Kleenexes. Wadded-up tissue balls dotted the carpet where they
had just missed the plastic wastebasket. I knew the end was near
for him, as the dying process had become kind of routine for me
by now. Everyone is a little different, but there are notable
phases: ailing but able to function, weakening as systems fail,
then clinging and barely hanging on (if there is something worth
hanging on for), and finally a last burst of fight from adrenaline
or the confusion of oxygen deprivation. Some people die
quickly, while others linger for days and days with vital signs
that should not be able to sustain life. Sometimes they still have
an agonal breath here and there, making it hard to tell if they
have yet passed. There are patients who stop breathing, but their
hearts continue to beat for a while. I remember watching the
electrocardiogram tracings, when I worked in an intensive care
unit. I saw many variations of what dying hearts look like, on
monitor screens and on spools of smooth paper with red grids.
Sometimes the electrical paths catch in the ventricles and
fibrillate; spiky waves flatten into ripples, then into lines. Even
more fascinating are those who have no heartbeat, no pulse, and
no circulation; yet to look at their electrocardiograms, a
“pulseless electrical activity” remains. PEA often forms a very
normal-looking heart rhythm. Although these patients are
clinically dead, some form of electricity lingers”¦
“What’s in the box, Mr. O? Seems important.” I felt his
radial pulse and counted, using my watch’s second hand.
“Why are you still here?!” He closed his eyes. “I’m so cold.
If I could just get warm. You’re not helping. Get out!” I left Mr.
O’s apartment not long after that. It had seemed like a routine
visit at the time. Looking back, I wish I had peeked inside that
metal box. I wonder if the box had anything to do with the way
he died, which was…bizarre.
Being sick, you spend a lot of time laying around and
thinking. Mainly, I thought about the fact that I
could not breathe. I could barely move a little air in
and out, and that was only if I remained still. With the slightest
bit of activity, like trying to stand up, I was instantly gasping
and wheezing. It was pathetic how helpless I became. I was, for
all practical purposes, incapacitated, chilled to the bone, lying
on my couch, thinking. Thinking was the worst part.
I kept waiting for the nurses to tell me it was finally time to
open the MAGIC BOX. I had heard this box contained
morphine: liquid heroin, in my refrigerator! I considered
drinking it all up and getting it over with. But I lacked the
strength to go far, unless I planned on staying wherever I
landed. Besides, what if it didn’t kill me? Then they might have
taken away the good drugs I had in pill form. Not that the pills
made the pain go away; rather, they helped me escape pain by
daydreaming or sleeping. The nurses reserved the morphine
drops for the very end, to help with what they called air hunger.
I told those stupid nurses: “But I have air hunger now!” They
just smiled, real patronizing-like. Their looks implied that my
breathing difficulties were going to get much worse. I could not
fathom how that was even possible. I frequently held myself
back from getting really violent with them, the nurses, even
though I knew they would have just laughed at me if I tried. Let
us just say those nurses were lucky I was not as strong as I used
to be.
A lot of my memories from Iraq came back, during those
months on the couch. I witnessed some things that most people
would consider gruesome. I was deployed there twice while
serving in the Army. The second time, I was a Staff Sergeant.
Being responsible for the welfare of soldiers made it more
difficult to fly under the radar, but the military was still a pretty
good place to hide. My unit escorted civilian and military
convoys all across Northern Iraq. The missions were usually
routine, but improvised explosive devices (IEDs) were a
constant worry. For years after the war, I swerved to avoid
potholes. We were lucky quite a few times, only because the
Hajjis had buried the IEDs too deep beneath the roads. Though
most of us managed to stay in one piece, those explosions
would still blow your damn truck off the road. The vibrations
alone were so powerful that, after one explosion in particular, I
couldn’t feel my legs. I was afraid to look down, because I was
sure they were gone.
I eventually regained sensation to my legs, but I later found
out those same vibrations had rattled my brain. TBI, they called
it: traumatic brain injury. I had trouble with my short-term
memory for a while, but that seemed to improve over time. I do
not know if it was the TBI or just being in Iraq for so long, but
somehow the experience changed my personality. I had always
been a pretty angry person; however, prior to my second tour, I
easily hid my intentions. Something about that injury exposed
my extremely short fuse for a while. When I got home, I
isolated myself and avoided talking to people because, without
fail, they would piss me the fuck off. I almost blew it,
everything, because I could barely control myself. It took a
good two years to get my mojo back. I am lucky I did not die in
the slammer.
After I was discharged from the Army, I started driving
trucks. It was a lifestyle that suited my desire to lay low. I was
almost invisible, driving from point A to point B and back,
watching ribbons and ribbons of road skate underneath my
wheels. It was monotonous and mind-numbing at times,
however I found unique opportunities to “express myself” while
out on the road.
Once, on a night mission, a terrific explosion lit up our lead
gun truck. Ironically, the first thing that came to mind was how
incredibly beautiful it was; white, billowy trajectories stretched
out like arms. Reality hit me, though, as I felt the blast wave hit
our truck. I immediately started calling for a status report of gun
truck one, gun two, requesting an ACE report (Ammo,
Casualties, Equipment). Green meant good, everything was
okay. Amber meant there was a problem with one or more of
the three. Black meant they were running out of ammo, or
equipment had been destroyed, and/or there were casualties.
After two radio attempts, there was no report, just dead silence.
Suddenly, screams came across our radio: “We’re on fire! We’re
on fire!” The medic and I exited our truck despite almost zero
visibility, running toward the lead truck through thick white
smoke. My throat felt like it was going to close, my eyes
burned, my skin itched. At first, I thought I was just being
paranoid. But after receiving status reports from the other gun
trucks, every team was experiencing similar symptoms except
for one. Multiple IEDs, white phosphorus rounds, and high-
explosive rounds had hit us. Chlorine and other household
chemicals were used as incendiary, we found out later. I feared
a horrifying death from chemical agent exposure that night. Our
trucks were quarantined, and twelve of us had to go to the
CASH for decontamination. Mustard gas, they said.
I don’t know what it was, but I was never quite the same
after that night. For one, I never shit right again, and these weird
skin lesions showed up on my arms and my torso. For years, I
had episodes of headaches and aching joints. The doctors
seemed to imply it was all in my head. There was definitely
something wrong with my head, but that wasn’t anything new.
The quacks acted like I was making physical symptoms up,
chalking it all up to post-traumatic stress.
One day, after returning fire in the town of Ramadi, I went
to see where our mortar rounds impacted. I traced their paths
back to the civilian home of a family of five, including a little
girl. They were all dead from our Howitzer rounds. I saw at
least five civilian houses destroyed. I saw some dude’s head and
some lady’s leg, lying in the street, their bodies MIA. I once saw
a man shot so many times in the belly with a squad automatic
weapon, when you picked him up you could see his spleen. The
Army offered me counseling for post-traumatic stress. But I did
not want to talk to them. I knew my true thoughts on what I had
seen would not be appreciated. They would have stuck me in a
sanitarium for sure.
I did ask for medicine to help me sleep. They asked if I was
having nightmares. “I have dreams,” I told them. “Little kids
have nightmares.” What I had was worse than nightmares.
When I dreamt about Iraq, I was still there. It was still
happening. I woke up yelling, shaking, sweating. Shapeless
black forms stood by my bed and tried to smother me. I do not
think I was asleep when I saw the demons. After two years, the
night sweats and physical symptoms subsided; at least, the
episodes were less frequent. As far as my brain injury, I
eventually learned to adapt, as does every animal who wishes to
survive in this world.
Joanna cropped up in my thoughts a lot, especially when I
sensed my end was near. Mainly, I was concerned with the fact
that I still had possession of her journal, and I needed to find a
way to get rid of it. My last mission, planned and executed from
my death-couch, was to ensure that no one would ever find out
about Joanna, or any of them. Even though I knew I would
already be worm food by the time of my hypothetical trial and
sentencing, I still preferred anonymity. Allowing myself to be
famous, which at the time amounted to gross exploitation, was
not worth the trade off. Besides, attempts to analyze people like
me are in vain. We are chameleons; we look and act just like
everybody else. Potentially exposing my methods to the whole
world would spoil the mystery that was me. I would rather hide
forever in the darkness, unknown and everywhere.
III.
Joanna
October 3rd
The day of her car accident, Sydney asked me to come
with her to interview a band for our high school
newspaper. When I told her I had to cheer at the
football game that night, she grabbed my shoulders, hugged me,
and told me that she missed me. It was like she knew that would
be the last time she saw me. One split-second decision on a
Friday afternoon, and I barely escaped death or serious injury.
I remember one morning, after I had spent the night at her
house (which I did often), Sydney told me she’d had a dream
about me. She called it a “Picasso dream,” where body parts
from her and me intermingled like a mosaic. I did not really
know what to think about it at the time.
Now, I just feel helpless, like she is caught between life and
death. They said she was clinically dead at the scene of the
crash. But they revived her, and now she is in a coma, on life
support. I cannot tell her goodbye yet. I want her here with me,
laughing and rebelling with me. I want her back, the girl who
made my boyfriend jealous, the girl who went to dance classes
and theater classes with me, who competed with me and made
me a better person. I took it all for granted: her company, her
advice, her playfulness. Everything she did was to the extreme.
She was all over the place, multitasking and socializing with her
throngs of fans. Maybe she knew she had to cram it all in,
because it was not going to last long.
October 5th
Tonight I let Sydney go. She has already crossed over, I
think. Part of her is still with me, just as part of me has gone
with her. Everything will be different. Sydney always knew that
superficial, material things would one day be insignificant to
me. I feel a burden has been lifted, like she is free from the
frustrations of this world. She gives me strength, and I will
always love her. I leaned over onto her in the intensive care unit
and cried. I told her all of the things I felt like saying. But
looking at the machines that breathed for her, the tubes and
lines everywhere, the patch of shaven hair, I knew she was not
there anymore. I stroked her bruised face and warm neck, traced
her eyebrows and nose. I ran my fingers through her remaining
hair, memorizing its color and texture. I could never forget.
My boyfriend is afraid something will happen to me. I was
thinking the same thing the other day. I do not care about that
anymore.
October 11th
Yesterday at 4:30 P.M., Sydney’s body died. I say body,
because the true Sydney, mind and spirit, left that poor chamber
last Saturday at 2:20 A.M.
I have not completely accepted it yet. Last night, I went to a
party. Before I left, I took five Prozac. My usual dosage is one
per day. My heart was beating rapidly. I wanted it to stop so I
could join Sydney, but it didn’t. God wants me to pull through
all this and live my time and help people. But right now I feel
like anger has made me desperate, and I am struggling to find
the will to live.
Her funeral is tomorrow.
No one understands my pain, because they didn’t see us
together. The few who did are the most comforting to me. We
were witches; we had power. Together, we could do anything.
We touched and fascinated such a wide range of people. Our
synergy was an incomprehensible force. We were going to
move to New York or Chicago after we graduated high school.
She was the actress, and I was the writer. No one knows this,
but I guess it does not matter anymore. They do not know how I
suffer. I can’t fathom how they effortlessly spurt forth tirades of
tears, while I am unable to break this invincible barrier that
represses all emotion, except for anger. My rage charges
forward in everything I do. An irate motivator intensifies my
ambition and drive. I try to feel, but I am smothered with mad,
passionate fury…and I proceed to take it out on myself.
God is making me strong, stronger than I want to be. I want
to be weak, and go with my sister and companion. Nothing
anyone has done does her justice. But He will take me when it
is my time. If I take my own life, I will have defied Him and I
will never get to see her. My soul will die and decompose with
the shell that holds it.
Sleep calls me. I hope I find her soon, wrapped around me
so that I cannot sense the world.
I am sitting outside the mausoleum in which Sydney rests.
There are many bouquets and arrangements for her””she would
love that. The funeral yesterday was both infuriating and
beautiful. The service, at first, was extremely impersonal and
tiresome. The priest did not even know her; he just read lists
that he had been given of the activities she was involved in. The
casket was open, but the body inside was unlike Sydney in
every way: bloated, wrinkled, swaddled in layers of thick
makeup, peaceful and powerless. She was buried in her
seventeenth birthday dress.
I wanted her to be beautiful, as she was in life. But I knew
it would be impossible to depict her beauty in death, because a
big part of her appeal and charisma was her unstoppable
movement and energy. Her black eyes danced from person to
person, so intelligent, mischievous, sad and young. Everyone
always seemed dull standing next to her. I always thought she
would be famous, because she had this light about her. She was
special. Sometimes people thought we hated each other,
because our fights were so intense. We were like sisters. She
finished my sentences. She helped me come out of my shell.
She called me out when I needed to be taken down a notch. I
only hope that she will remember me when I come to Heaven.
She lived 17 years, 5 months, and 23 days on Earth.
Read more about Picasso Dream and Allison Harris Ludwig HERE.
Copyright 2008 Allison Harris Ludwig. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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