rest in peace amen

Something I have learnt about being a nurse is how not to be afraid of death. After looking at the state of some of the old people I treat, I think death seems like a way out of eternal misery. I have also come to the conclusion that I really don’t want to live after I turn 65. I don’t want the last look at myself to be a reflection of wrinkles; saggy breasts and doughnut roll flab. I would definitely rather die. Without any doubt. Neither do I want to become senile and wander around aimlessly depending solely on nurses like myself, who honestly rarely have a clue about what they are doing.
Up until now, I have only really witnessed two dead people. It made me think a lot about death and dying and strangely enough, life itself. I remember on my first lesson of o level biology we did the seven vital functions and I was so fascinated when the teacher mentioned death as one of them. Anything living has to die otherwise one cannot say it ever lived. So paradoxically death is definitely a part of life. A part of life I am thinking about more than ever lately. Death is something nobody likes to think about or talk about. I remember last summer my uncle died and I could not believe I would never hear his voice again or ever see his face smiling at me. Now death is different for me. I’m used to it and I have come to terms with it and even though I hate myself for saying this, I now find it kind of comical.
I remember a colleague and I were washing a patient in the morning and she was joking and walking around and was feeling absolutely fine and great. Not once did she call me Rosemary’s baby, she-devil or threaten me that if I touch her she would make me eat her nephew’s shit. Therefore, by my standards this woman was having a good day. Actually, better than good. Outstanding if I may say so. Any patient who does not accuse me of being one of Satan’s nearest and dearest is definitely feeling very bright and chipper. When we finished bathing her, we got her to sit on her sofa, tidied her area and went on to get another patient ready for the day.
Before I knew it, lunchtime rolled around and it was time to dish out the pig slop the hospital gives these old ladies to eat. I have come to believe that one truly becomes old when one actually starts to look forward to eating hospital food. The usual menu is compiled of limp, pale cabbage, under cooked potatoes and meat that looks like the lunch ladies simply emptied out the days vomit bags and added a little Oxo cube for flavour. Yet, my old fogies eat this meal (a very inappropriate word to use for this steaming shit) with such gusto that it almost makes me want to reach out for a vomit bag. I walked into the eight-bedded room and started to give out the trays of food and feed those who cannot feed themselves. I approached the woman who I had encountered that morning after, please note, I had given the other seven patients their swill. I placed her tray on her bedside table and prepared for my usual lunchtime speech:
“Josephina, I am putting your food on your table. Shall I cut it for you?”
But Josephina was fast asleep. I gently touched her on the arm and repeated myself.
“Josephina! I am putting your food on your table. Shall I cut it for you?”
I started to get a bit peeved. You idiotic old woman! Eat your damn slop before I push your face in it! Jesus, is it such a difficult concept? Food on plate! Food goes in mouth! Food is swallowed! Remains of food are removed from nappy the following day! It is not something out of the ordinary!
I felt her face and my hand slipped over her carotid pulse, situated under the chin. I noticed it was not beating. Fuck. The old cunt was dead. I had walked into that room a grand total of seven times and had not noticed. I called the nursing officer.
“Mary, I think Josephina is dead.”
Mary came in and checked for herself.
“Oh yes, I do believe you are right. Ha ha! And you bothered to wash her this morning!”
Yes, it was a comment like that, which truly brightened my afternoon.
We called the doctor who certified her as dead and that was it. She was placed in a metal cart and wheeled away. That was the end of her.
My second death experience was far more nerve wracking. It was one of those freaky coincidences that keep me from restful sleep.
Grace was a very large 88 year-old woman. This woman was big. She was wide. If she was responsive and did not suffer from stroke, she would have been the most successful sumo wrestler that ever lived. And if that didn’t work out, she could always nab the great career of being a human beach ball. Needless to say, Grace hardly lived up to her name. Apart from the long voluptuous beard and moustache sprouting from her mouth areas, she had the biggest bed sore on her ass. Now, a bedsore, to those of you who are not in the know, is a disgusting, often gangrenous and cavernous wound. To make matters worse, a bedsore stinks. It smells awful. You walk into the room of a bedsored-woman and say to yourself “Hmmm, something is decomposing here, God it stinks! I’m suffocating! My lungs are being intoxicated! Sweet Mother of Jesus, get me out of here!!”
That morning, the sadistic qualified nurses sent three students, including myself to wash her. We looked like three toothpicks trying to manoeuvre a watermelon. I took on the brave task of removing her nappy and I exposed the offensive bedsore that was caked with diarrhoea. The smell was absolutely phenomenal. I was about to add my semi-digested breakfast to the mess. I wore 3 pairs of gloves on top of each other and tried to think happy thoughts. I started to think of that Boo Radley’s song, it goes “wake up it’s a beautiful morning! See the sun shining in your eyes!” well, it certainly was not written for me. Hell no. I thought to myself “Why doesn’t this somewhat androgynous excuse for a female just die!”
And you will not believe it, but two hours later she did.
The nursing officer and one of the male staff took on the job of stuffing her with cotton wool, as is standard procedure. They wrenched her mouth open and started stuffing her, choking her with wadding and cotton wool while us first year students watched in horror. The nursing officer turned to us and said, “Well, girls, this teaches you a lesson. Don’t eat fattening food. It will gives us too much work when you die.” The eloquence of my nursing officer has never failed to astound me. The metal cart was brought out and the diseased Grace was heaved in. Unfortunately, she was too big for such a narrow cart and her arm remained hanging out as well as a little flab. And she was gone.
Death is such a casual occurrence. Especially in medical wards filled with social cases who are really there because they simply have nowhere else to go. They are literally sitting there, waiting to die. When I was relating this story to my father, he was disgusted by my lack of respect for the dead. Well, what’s the sense of that? If she was not respected when she was alive, it is quite futile respecting her now. Too little, too late. We live to die; otherwise we cannot say we ever lived. How completely warped. But such is life. I guess.