This story is by Elise Luce and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
I sensed Jumbo understood, as I did, that people often died the way they lived. The little brown dog, no bigger than a pineapple, smelled death coming; she’d spent months tracking the scent. Jumbo snuggled on Hank’s hospital bed in the living room, burrowing herself into the fuzzy blue blanket covering his body. As Hank gasped his last breath, Jumbo gazed at me, sighed, and closed her eyes in a final goodbye.
Four hours earlier, I received the call from Heather, Hank’s hospice nurse.
“Hey, I just hung up with the paramedics. Hank’s active but comfortable. His daughter panicked and called 911. They didn’t take him because of the DNR. Anyway, I’m headed that way. How soon can you get there?”
Thirty minutes later, I arrived at Hank’s house. Unfamiliar cars filled the driveway. I knew Hank was estranged from his family, but he never said why. He listed his daughter as his next-of-kin because she lived close by. Once I parked, it struck me: Hank’s death would forever alter the lives of everyone inside.
The front door was open, so I entered. Following the raised voices, I walked into the living room and found Hank’s grown children fighting. His crying daughter collapsed on the couch while her brothers hovered over her, casting blame for their father’s condition. She’d given Hank morphine to manage his symptoms, like Hank wanted. Two of Hank’s sons, estranged for years, now stood by his bedside, hurling accusations, and threatening lawsuits. The hostility spewed decades of family baggage into a toxic cloud, engulfing the room.
Intervening, I approached Hank’s bed and introduced myself as his hospice social worker. I explained that Hank was actively dying and urged them to spend this time making the memories they’d prefer to remember later.
“Hearing is the last sense we lose, so if you want to say goodbye to your dad, now is the time.”
Hanks’ daughter said something sentimental; one brother joked, the other lost his temper, and the brawling began again. I’d hoped to help them process their shared grief, but they weren’t ready. These wounds cut deep and this wasn’t the time to start picking at the scabs.
Heather arrived and asked them to step aside because Hank needed quiet. But his kids huffed, puffed, and argued about funeral arrangements and assets. With all the years of bottled-up resentment, anger clouded judgment, emotions ran high, and tempers flared. The bickering continued while we tended to Hank, only a few steps away.
A rattle gurgled from Hank’s throat, making an uncomfortable sound that startled the siblings. Both sons scurried outside to smoke, and his daughter darted into the kitchen. Heather checked Hank’s vitals and examined the purplish marbling traveling up his mottling feet. His labored breathing caused secretions to spill out, so she cleaned his mouth and moistened his lips.
I scratched Jumbo’s head, held Hank’s hand, and reflected on our past two months together, remembering the conversations about the lives he’d touched, including mine.
When I first introduced myself to Hank, he said, “I prefer to deal directly with my maker,” so I reached down to pet Jumbo. “She doesn’t take to strangers,” he said, yet there she was, licking my hand like a lollipop.
With Jumbo’s tongue gliding across my wrist, I asked, “Do you think your maker would mind if I reviewed a legal form about your wishes?”
Hank raised his brow and pointed to a wall safe. “My will, with all my wishes, is over yonder, along with my money and my guns,” he said, glaring out the window he faced.
Cutting straight to the point, “About the guns. Hank, I have to ask. Do you think about suicide?”
“Lady, I’m no nutso! I’m not dying by my own hand, if that’s what you mean!” he said, bugging his eyes at me.
“Okay, promise to let me know if that changes. Next, do you have an out-of-hospital do-not-resuscitate order?”
Shaking his head, “Like I said, it’s all taken care of.”
“Hank, if you don’t want CPR or to go to the ER, you’ll have to complete this document and display it by the front door or on the refrigerator.”
“Hogwash! No one’s coming here, and I’m not dying in the hospital.”
“If that’s what you want, the law requires this form.”
Nodding his head as if shaming me, “Well, why didn’t that lawyer give it to me like that then? I paid him a pile of money to handle all this.”
Like a flight attendant giving emergency evacuation instructions, I explained that this DNR applied to non-hospitalized, terminally ill people who wished to forgo resuscitation attempts and permit natural death. Hank wanted to sign and understood the need for two witnesses, so I headed outside to find them.
After twenty minutes of door-knocking, I returned with a neighbor and a UPS driver. Both agreed to witness Hank’s signature, and once they signed, he shooed them out the door like a couple of houseflies. Jumbo’s ears twitched as the neighbor lady patted her head goodbye. Apologizing with my eyes, I thanked them as they left.
“Hank, will your daughter help you when you can’t take care of yourself?”
“I reckon so. That doctor got her involved a while back. But I’m not dealing with that screwball she married,” he said, waving me toward the kitchen. “Hang that form on the icebox and be on your way.”
“Hank, we still need the doctor’s signature.”
“Well, get the damn thing signed and bring it back next Wednesday at ten! And lock the door on your way out!”
So I did.
Eight Wednesdays came and went, and each week, I sat with Hank in his living room with Jumbo in his lap. He faced the window to the backyard, where the garage he converted into a workshop filled his view. Rusty tools and overgrown vines replaced the sweat of his labors which he referred to as incomplete and gone.
Stories about his younger years weaved into our conversations.
“I grew up with two options. You’re either on the top or the bottom, and I preferred to do the screwing rather than getting screwed!” he said, pulling himself up to sip a cold one.
Hank shared his regrets as a father of five, faults as a husband of three, and failures as the man he didn’t become. He recalled drinking too much, fooling around too often, and disrespecting everybody else.
“It’s how I was raised and I never learned any different, until now. Hell, I always believed in the afterlife. But I don’t think I packed my bags for the last leg of the trip,” he said, reconciling his actions against his life. “Give it to me straight. What’s going to happen when I start dying?”
With him hanging onto my words, I described the painful and unpredictable process and how he would want to stay ahead of the pain versus chasing it later.
“You know, morphine killed my cousin,” he said, “So I’m not doing that!”
“Hank, death hurts and morphine helps the body relax enough, to die, by easing anguish, calming anxiety, and relieving breathlessness—all symptoms of dying.”
“How bad does it hurt?”
“Well, it all depends on how a person perceives pain, along with the emotional, psychological, and spiritual dimensions of facing mortality. It can be overwhelming. But it may help to concentrate on something soothing, like a favorite pastime or cherished memory, while controlling your breath,” I said, handing him a Kleenex. “We can start practicing now if you’d like.”
Dabbing his eyes, he said, “Hell, I’m not sure what to think about anything anymore.”
Tears rolled down his cheeks as his grip tightened around my fingers, his anxiety etched in my skin. Hank revisited his life choices, each shaping the seriousness of his thoughts during his final weeks. He shared his fears and doubts, trusting me to carry the weight of his burdens, even if only a little.
Just five days earlier, a calmness gleamed from Hank’s eyes as he took a deep breath. “It sounds silly, but the most comforting thing I could think of is Jumbo and you and Heather sitting here with me at the end.”
And now, there we were. Hank gasped, a calm enveloped the room, and my gaze shifted to Jumbo as she sighed and shut her eyes.
Heather checked Hank’s pulse, nodded, and said, “He’s gone.”
Tearing up, a realization washed over me: It’s not the regrets that define us; it’s the love and comfort we find within ourselves and each other. Heather hugged me as I repeated Hank’s final wish. “I sure hope the neighbor lady takes Jumbo like she promised.”
Amazing!