A Dying Day

by Carrie Grinstead

The old schizophrenic with end-stage renal disease puts his clothes on, escapes while we are on rounds at the other end of the ward, and dies in the drifted snow just north of the zoo. Local TV reporters visit the hospital, and my favorite charge nurse loses her job. Still, in quiet moments, my heart lifts and my eyes light up.
 
I imagine I’m 76, and my brain, already fraying at the seams, suffers a stroke. After a few days in critical care, I am confused but conscious. I remove my needles. I am both awake and dreaming; I move without effort or intention. A door opens, and I enter the living world of dry cleaners and fast food restaurants, youth league soccer and violin lessons.
 
Maybe, a few days later, they find my body, and my family, if I have one, sues the shit out of the hospital. Distressed floor nurses, crying into the phone, question their experience and competence and career choice. How could I have left without being seen? Who was to blame? The Head of Security meets with the Chief Nursing Officer. Documents are reviewed, a root cause sought. Policies are analyzed, criticized, revised.
 
But in the last hours, I walked with no shoes, and grass curled thick into my toes. What a beautiful evening it was, clouds painted across the sky as little girls raced home on bicycles. Squirrels flickered up tree trunks, and gentle breezes played across sidewalk puddles. Crows hunkered on telephone wires, holding up the threads of my life, stitching together the years I spent on this planet. All I had done and all I had failed to do gathered in visions before me, like old friends meeting for dinner, like books in a quiet room.
 
And I felt so lucky because, lying in the hospital with my brain all torn to shreds, I did not expect this to happen.