She might have looked lovely, had it not been for all the tubes stuck in her nose and mouth. With her eyes shut like this, he envisioned the angels flying around inside her head, helping her withstand the pain and whatever concerns she might be experiencing on what promised to be the last few hours or minutes of her life. He felt very little return of the caress he gave her hand with his own, although he continued to rub the top with his fingers in his fading hope that she felt his touch.
“Mother, can you hear me?” he whispered, his voice matching the solemnity of a room cloaked in the faint light of the lone bedside lamp. The occasional semi-rhythmic beeps of the heart monitor both assured him she clung to life and reminded him that the gift could be reclaimed at any moment.
She did nothing immediately, causing him to assume she did not. He’d sat in the wooden bedside chair for a number of hours and his muscles ached from lack of movement. Disengaging his fingers from her hand, he allowed it to fall softly onto the bed.
As he started to stand, her eyes opened and in a voice suddenly invigorated, she remarked, “That’s right, leave me alone to die here, I guess I deserve no more. You spend forty years caring for someone, fixing his meals, wiping his tushie, kissing his boo-boos, listening to him piss and moan about not making Law Review and he can’t spend a couple of hours of his busy day comforting his mother on her last day on earth. That’s gratitude, for you…”
Quickly re-assuming his grip on his mother’s hand, he said, “Shhhh… don’t worry, Mother, I won’t leave you.”
“There’s a good boy,” she said laconically, a smile emerging from between the tubes, “in this light, you look just like your father—God rest his soul—with the thinning hair and beady eyes and that nose… not a handsome man, really, but he had his good points, I suppose.”
Well, saints be praised for that, you hideous old crone. “Yes, mother, I’m sure he did… but let’s not worry about that right now. Is there anything I can get you?”
“Well, you know how I hate to be a bother, but could you walk out into the hall and find a doctor who knows what the hell he’s doing and have him come in here and save my ass?”
Quickly re-assuming his grip on his mother’s hand, he said, “Shhhh… don’t worry, Mother, I won’t leave you.”
“There’s a good boy,” she said laconically, a smile emerging from between the tubes, “in this light, you look just like your father—God rest his soul—with the thinning hair and beady eyes and that nose… not a handsome man, really, but he had his good points, I suppose.”
Well, saints be praised for that, you hideous old crone. “Yes, mother, I’m sure he did… but let’s not worry about that right now. Is there anything I can get you?”
“Well, you know how I hate to be a bother, but could you walk out into the hall and find a doctor who knows what the hell he’s doing and have him come in here and save my ass?”
Immediately, her eyes widened and she ripped the tubes out of her nose. Sitting up in bed, she fluffed her pillow and remarked, “There… I feel better already. How about opening up that window over there and letting some sunlight in here? This ain’t the friggin’ funeral home… yet.”
Katherine Mary Fitzgerald-O’Connell located the small microphone located at the head of her bed and pushed the button. “Nurse, come quick! I need you!” she screamed in a voice packed with emotion. Leaning toward her son, she grinned and whispered, “That ought to get her fat ass in motion. There’ll be so much friction created from her thighs rubbing together, I guarantee you we’ll smell bacon cooking by the time she waddles through that door.”
The international standard for determination of the ‘ten second interval’ is the amount of time required for a charge nurse to summon assistance, find a crash cart and enter the room of a dying patient. The look on her face, upon assessing the scene, could only be described as disappointment. Picking up the nasal cannula from the bed she overcame her shock long enough to attempt to re-seat it in her nostrils. “Mrs. O’Connell, you have to leave this in.”
“Who says I gotta leave it in? I’m the one who’s dying here, why can’t I die without it?”
“We have rules, and I have to obey them. The doctor would not approve, I assure you.” Patiently, she once again picked up the tube and neared her patient’s nose.
Katherine Mary Fitzgerald-O’Connell located the small microphone located at the head of her bed and pushed the button. “Nurse, come quick! I need you!” she screamed in a voice packed with emotion. Leaning toward her son, she grinned and whispered, “That ought to get her fat ass in motion. There’ll be so much friction created from her thighs rubbing together, I guarantee you we’ll smell bacon cooking by the time she waddles through that door.”
The international standard for determination of the ‘ten second interval’ is the amount of time required for a charge nurse to summon assistance, find a crash cart and enter the room of a dying patient. The look on her face, upon assessing the scene, could only be described as disappointment. Picking up the nasal cannula from the bed she overcame her shock long enough to attempt to re-seat it in her nostrils. “Mrs. O’Connell, you have to leave this in.”
“Who says I gotta leave it in? I’m the one who’s dying here, why can’t I die without it?”
“We have rules, and I have to obey them. The doctor would not approve, I assure you.” Patiently, she once again picked up the tube and neared her patient’s nose.
Katherine Mary Fitzgerald-O’Connell’s hand grabbed the nurse’s wrist in mid-lunge, causing a resounding ‘thwack’ to fill the room. “Tell Sawbones he can kiss my ass”, she snarled, “what’s he going to do about it, throw me out? Tell him to get crackin’, I’ve been thrown out of better hospitals than this one! Now, move! Get your lazy pill-pushin’, bedpan-scrapin’ ass out of my sight!”
When the astonished nurse’s ‘ass’ was, indeed, out of sight, Katherine Mary Fitzgerald-O’Connell once again smiled at her son and patted the bed next to her. “Come over here, child, we need to talk.”
Still trying to figure out exactly what he was witnessing, he slowly approached her bedside and sat down in the straight-back chair.
Once again she grabbed his hand and smiled, saying, “Son, this may be the last chance we ever get to talk. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”
Sheepishly, he forced his gaze to the window, then into his lap. Then, feeling her hands kneading his pleadingly, he opened his mouth. “I— I— I guess there are a lot of things, but one thing I’ve always wondered is, why did you name me Shlomo?”
“What, you don’t like it?” For the first time, vulnerability frosted with hurt shone on her cheeks.
“No, it’s not that I don’t like it… necessarily, but, Mother, we’re Irish Catholics and you gave me a Jewish name.”
“Mrs. Carver named her son George Washington, too, and I don’t remember hearing of him complaining about it. Did I raise an anti-Semite? You should be grateful that I’d give you such a name. I’m appalled, not to mention extremely disappointed in you.”
Yea, like that’s a shock. “Never mind… I’m sorry. Let’s drop the subject.”
“You know, smart people, those Jews. Did you ever hear of a Jew who didn’t make his mother very proud by becoming a doctor or lawyer or rabbi or diamond merchant? They even had a good baseball pitcher, that Brooklyn Dodger player, what was his name? Give me a second, I’ll think of it… yea, Sandy Koufax. Do you know he was such a good Jew that he wouldn’t pitch on the Sabbath? That was a good boy, that Sandy, I’m sure his mother was very proud.”
As opposed to me, that is. “It’s not impor—”
“And another thing,” she interrupted, “the mayor of Dublin in the ‘60s was a Jew. I remember watching President Kennedy—God rest his soul—standing on the podium with him when he visited Ireland. The press made a big deal out of it. So instead of asking your mother why she gave you a Jewish name, maybe you should get down on your knees and thank her, while you still can, for preparing you for life with a name that meant something.”
Oh, yea? Watch this: “Exactly what does ‘Shlomo’ mean, Mother?”
“How the hell should I know, I heard it used on Ben Casey. Now, there was a doctor! He cured ailments that hadn’t even been invented yet. Not half bad on the eyes, either, I could have fallen for him like a ton of bricks. You got anything else you want to know?”
Shlomo O’Connell didn’t hesitate for a second. “No, that’s about it, I guess.”
She shrugged her shoulders and laid her head upon the pillow. “That being the case, I guess I should get this show on the road and die. Tell you what, Shlomo, how about you count to ten. By the time you finish, I promise I’ll be dead.”
And she was.
When the astonished nurse’s ‘ass’ was, indeed, out of sight, Katherine Mary Fitzgerald-O’Connell once again smiled at her son and patted the bed next to her. “Come over here, child, we need to talk.”
Still trying to figure out exactly what he was witnessing, he slowly approached her bedside and sat down in the straight-back chair.
Once again she grabbed his hand and smiled, saying, “Son, this may be the last chance we ever get to talk. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”
Sheepishly, he forced his gaze to the window, then into his lap. Then, feeling her hands kneading his pleadingly, he opened his mouth. “I— I— I guess there are a lot of things, but one thing I’ve always wondered is, why did you name me Shlomo?”
“What, you don’t like it?” For the first time, vulnerability frosted with hurt shone on her cheeks.
“No, it’s not that I don’t like it… necessarily, but, Mother, we’re Irish Catholics and you gave me a Jewish name.”
“Mrs. Carver named her son George Washington, too, and I don’t remember hearing of him complaining about it. Did I raise an anti-Semite? You should be grateful that I’d give you such a name. I’m appalled, not to mention extremely disappointed in you.”
Yea, like that’s a shock. “Never mind… I’m sorry. Let’s drop the subject.”
“You know, smart people, those Jews. Did you ever hear of a Jew who didn’t make his mother very proud by becoming a doctor or lawyer or rabbi or diamond merchant? They even had a good baseball pitcher, that Brooklyn Dodger player, what was his name? Give me a second, I’ll think of it… yea, Sandy Koufax. Do you know he was such a good Jew that he wouldn’t pitch on the Sabbath? That was a good boy, that Sandy, I’m sure his mother was very proud.”
As opposed to me, that is. “It’s not impor—”
“And another thing,” she interrupted, “the mayor of Dublin in the ‘60s was a Jew. I remember watching President Kennedy—God rest his soul—standing on the podium with him when he visited Ireland. The press made a big deal out of it. So instead of asking your mother why she gave you a Jewish name, maybe you should get down on your knees and thank her, while you still can, for preparing you for life with a name that meant something.”
Oh, yea? Watch this: “Exactly what does ‘Shlomo’ mean, Mother?”
“How the hell should I know, I heard it used on Ben Casey. Now, there was a doctor! He cured ailments that hadn’t even been invented yet. Not half bad on the eyes, either, I could have fallen for him like a ton of bricks. You got anything else you want to know?”
Shlomo O’Connell didn’t hesitate for a second. “No, that’s about it, I guess.”
She shrugged her shoulders and laid her head upon the pillow. “That being the case, I guess I should get this show on the road and die. Tell you what, Shlomo, how about you count to ten. By the time you finish, I promise I’ll be dead.”
And she was.
Shlomo O’Connell pushed the button on the bedside microphone and calmly asked the nurse to return—and not to rush. Shlomo kissed his mother on the cheek and asked God to claim her soul. He was grateful that his mother hadn’t suffered while passing but he was even more grateful that she hadn’t watched Bonanza immediately before naming him. The idea of spending his life as Hoss or Little Joe was a little more than he could have withstood.
Bob Church©2007
8 comments:
Ha! Good one. He should just feel lucky she wasn't watching The Muppets!
Yea, I can hear the voice over the loudspeaker now... "Now pitching for New York, Cookie Monster O'Connell..." Ha! What's in a name, indeed...
Or how about Kermit O'Connell? And, it's nice to see your picture in there!
Nice...
Poetman
I suppose it beats 'Elmo' or 'Snuffleupagus'...
As for the picture, I can only presume that it's been awhile since you've visited the optometrist. I've been injoined by several states not to allow any representations of my countenance because it violates several morality laws prohibiting public lewdness. At one time, after I broke the third camera at the DMV office, I became the only person in Colorado history with no driver's license photo.
Well, I guess you'll be safe in a linup! Look on the bright side!
You look happy, kind, wise and grandfatherly...what more could you ask for?
Maybe it's because I'm Irish, but I don't find this at all unusual.
Sorry to disappoint you, Jo... I'll try harder to be a little more ridiculous next time. ;)
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