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The dying process essay
The dying process essay
The dying process essay
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I sit in the waiting room of the local hospital, clutching my hands in a fist. There are a lot of people even at this late of an hour all shuffling about, going up to the receptionists’ desk with scowls on their faces. They speak in harsh words and point at the clock. It seems like I’m the only calm one in a state of confusion, but I’m too scared to get up or do anything. My spine grinds against the back of the chair as I shift position so I’m hunched over. My hands are white and shaking, and my throat is parched but I gulp anyway as a lady comes up to me. I see only her sneakers and don’t meet her eyes. “Are you okay, young man?” she asks. With relief and dread I realize she isn't a nurse, and look up to see an aging woman carrying a satchel over her shoulder. I fake a smile and nod, yet to my dismay she sits down next to me and sets the satchel at her feet. “Do you need anything?” “No,” I tell her, running my fingers through my dark hair. I message the ache in the back of my neck, and my hand is drenched in sweat when I pull it back and look at it. The stranger gives me an odd look and shifts in her chair to make a point. “Look, honey,” she says, “you can talk to me about whatever it is that’s happening, alright?” She continues when I don’t reply. “Why are you here all by yourself?” “Car crash,” I reply, looking at the clock. The impatience of all the others is starting to get to me, and the seconds tick past as the minute hand stretches towards midnight. “I’m sorry to hear that, doll.” “It’s okay,” I lie. She sits back in her chair before reaching out to grab a magazine from a table across from us. The woman makes no more attempts to console me, instead thumbing through the pages, her eyes darting frantically across the ... ... middle of paper ... ...aren't they?” My voice is a mere whisper, and I know the doctor hasn't heard me correctly. I repeat myself. “You don’t have to give me a speech, Doctor. I know they’re dead.” He bites his lip and nods. You’d think it would be easier for a Doctor to break the news. “I’m sorry, son.” The last hour I had spent preparing for this moment, because deep down I seemed to know that my family would never leave the hospital alive. Still, the words hit me at full force, and I feel my breathing quicken and heartbeat pick up as my eyes dart around the room. My pulse pounds in my temple as if I just ran a mile, and the doctor is trying to get me to calm down, but the room is spinning and inky blackness edges into the corner of my vision. My legs feel weak and shaky as I succumb to the horribleness of it all. I am terrified. And at that moment, the world falls out from under me.
“Well-Well, it was the holidays, which I mentioned.” She gulped a shallow breath and her eyes met the floor again. “I was home alone-Well, Jordan was here, but she hadn’t paid a glance of attention to me. She was in a rush to find her clubs, cigarettes, and some trousers for when her tournament would begin. And, I suppose all the servants were here as well, they play a bit of a key to the story…” Her breath turned shallow again when she finally looked me in the eyes. “I saw a… darker servant walk by, and he held a note in his hand. He rushed by me like he was running from a bee, and I stopped him. I asked ‘what is
speak. After a time, he Afinally calmed down and the words came. The doctor was
“This is real, I know I’m dead, and I already told you to stop whispering.” She uttered the last part more aggressively than the rest of her sentence. Philip was shocked, he was flabbergasted, he felt ready to pass out or call for his mother like he use to when he was afraid.
I had just finished facing my fears watching the metallic needle slip so seamlessly under my skin into the veins of my nervous, clammy hand. Hugging my Mom like it could have been the last time I saw her, seeing my dad's face stern and worried. I wheeled down the hall into this operating room, white was all I saw, a bed in the middle for the surgery to go down. As I lay on the bed waiting to be put under I remember seeing the blue masks of the people to be operating on me, I had to put all my trust in them, trusting someone you seen for less than 5 seconds with your life. Absolutely terrifying. The nurse slipping the fluid into my IV as I lay on my back looking up at the white ceiling, this cold sensations rushed over me. Then suddenly, I was out.
The patient was more beautiful than she realized. If only she could see it for herself. The color from her dainty face had drained to a sickened green tint and her eyes widened in fear. The walls of the clinic exam room were ordained in calming colors, but offered the young woman no comfort. She continued to blink rapidly as if she would awaken from the nightmare; her long eyelashes could not fan the health worker’s words away. She thought it was harmless, just a night of fun. It made her feel valuable and attractive. Yet being desired now left her alone, crumpling to the floor screaming between sobs and desperately reaching to the empty air around her. She couldn’t grasp any security. Not only did that harmless night of fun result in her becoming
“You could have died if we didn’t find this soon enough.” Swallowing hard, knowing a few weeks later I could have been gone. “You have a diaphragmatic hernia.” While the doctor was explaining to me what happened to my stomach, they were already getting a room set up for me. “You need to have surgery tonight.” Walking into that hospital that morning hoping they would find what was going on, I never thought I would have been having surgery that night. It felt like everything was going so fast. One minute I walked in and the next I was laying in a hospital bed with medicine going into my body, knowing I wouldn’t leave that hospital for at least another week.
With clammy hands and a racing heart, I numbly walk to my car in the parking lot. I’ve just left my regular doctor’s office with possibly the worst news I could have eve received. The doctor’s words just keep rattling around in my brain as I attempt to control my emotions and not break down in the middle of the parking lot. Quickly climbing into the seat of my vehicle and closing the door, the flood gates finally open. The tears keep coming, and I can’t make them stop.
Running through the hospital’s long white halls, he thought that his mom was going to die. The paramedics were right in front of him, but it felt as if they were a mile away. Reaching his hand out, he began to holler: PLEASE STOP! PLEASE the words bristled from his mouth. He fell onto his knees, in front of him the white floor had droplets of blood that came out of his mother. Time passes, the boy lying on the floor, motionless, Just looking at the flickering light above. Footsteps approached, the boy remained motionless--not caring who it was. I’ve found the boy, over. Excellent nurse, bring him to O.R. #3. Gotcha.
Who brought me here? Out of impulse, my hand travels to my face, pressing the throbbing area on my right temple. I felt a scar and flinched at the pain. I tried to get up. Once I stepped on the cold, white tiles, I instantly fell back on to the bed. My body, engulfed in pain as if objecting my decision to stand up. I lay there pathetically, waiting for the pain to wash away. Staring at the ceiling, illuminated with a white fluorescent light. Perhaps waiting for some help by the hospital staff. I still didn't know how I got here, who took me here, how long I've been here.
My internal organs thumped against my chest as I dragged my bag along the carpet floor and into the corridor. As I walked into the long hall, I glanced up and noticed the sign telling me I could get on. My entire body could barely hold itself together with the anticipation of the monumental, dream-come-true event about to take place. I said to myself, "I'll soon be in the air." I slowed my pace to further enjoy what was happening. Swarms of people walked around me as I treasured knowing that one of my lifetime goals was now inevitably going to occur. The excitement and adrenaline running through my veins could have killed a horse.
My stomach weakens with a thought that something is wrong, what would be the answer I could have never been ready for. I call my best friend late one night, for some reason she is the only person’s voice I wanted to hear, the only person who I wanted to tell me that everything will be okay. She answer’s the phone and tells me she loves me, as I hear the tears leak through, I ask her what is wrong. The flood gates open with only the horrid words “I can’t do this anymore”. My heart races as I tell her that I am on my way, what I was about to see will never leave my thoughts.
Four of them walk in dressed in their crisp, white gowns and matching caps. An older male opens a drawer and pulls on a pair of latex gloves. The three observers stand back and the gloved man looms over me, face shadowed in the bright light shining down on my naked body. He gestures to a younger man from the observation group. The youthful man approaches me, already putting on gloves, ready to face the challenge. From the steel tray beside me, he picks up a scalpel, hands shaking with anxiety. Inside my head, I’m screaming. I want away from this man. No sound escapes me, however, because I cannot speak. He glimpses my body for a moment and then decides to place the scalpel back on the tray. If it was ever possible to pick up something softly, this man quietly and carefully picks up a syringe and takes a step back towards me, his footsteps clicking on the tile floor, reverberating off the drab, white walls enclosing five very important people in a room vaporous with the grisly smells of dead flesh. He looks deep into my glassy eyes as he sinks the needle deep into my eye tissue, drawing vitreous fluid as he slowly lifts the plug back on the syringe. The man withdraws the needle and places it in an icebox next to the tray of surgical instruments, practically dropping the needle. He wants this particular procedure over with.
I go lay on the couch feeling like shit, my intentions. My temperature fluctuates, my hands start to shake, I’m sweating, everyone's walking by me in slow motion. I feel something graze my arm and then a type grip. I turn my head so sharp I black out for a couple seconds. It’s a girl she is looking at me… Then she begins to move her mouth, “ I can help you ”, she says, “follow me if you want it all to go away”. I follow her into the bathroom upstairs where there is two other girls that look like zombies, They’re sticking something in their arms.
I wake up in this room. My mother is to my left crying with her face in the palms of her hands. My dad, he paces the floor with his hands in his pockets. I am scared I can barely remember what has transpired. As my mother stands and looks at me square in the eyes, the nurse comes and says with a grin on her radiant face “Hello, Mr. Howard. How are you feeling?” I attempt to sit up, but my body is aching. My dad hurries over to help, but it was no use the pain was overbearing. I began to weep and apologize. My dad with a stern look on his face says, “Andra, you are fine now just relax”. How could I relax? I am stuck in this room with no memory of what happened.