A shrill flat line flutters on the heart monitor. She is dead. I stand slump shouldered, head bowed. My daughters wail. A nurse rushes in. A chaplain and social worker follow. They want to cradle our loss. “Would you like to say a prayer?" “Can I get you anything?” “She’s in a better place.” Their words intrude. “No, I don’t want a prayer.” “No, there’s nothing you can get.” “No, she’s not in a better place.” A knock on the door. A medical intern enters. His coat is stained, his body rumpled. He smells of stale coffee. He is here to pronounce her dead, a legal necessity. He steps to the bed. He listens to her heart, one minute, maybe two. He searches for a pulse. His first death? He scribbles on the palm of his hand (time of death?), then clicks his pen. He clicks and clicks. Sweat gathers on his forehead. He glances at my wife. “Would you like an autopsy?” An autopsy, a cutting open of the body to determine cause of death. “No thank you.” We know the cause; we want her home, home from a hospital in Los Angeles to a crematorium in Phoenix. The nurse approaches and grabs my arm, gently. “Spend as much time with her as you want. ” I want 30 more years.
NSTL
