Memento Mori
by Kaye
post SR
The days and nights spilled into each other, swirling together, losing
distinction under the constant glare of the fluorescents, the incessant hum of
the machines, the monitors. The mourning.
His own internal clock had been reset weeks ago. Imposed by somebody
else’s med regimen, dictated by somebody else’s test schedule, reinvented by somebody
else’s heartbeat.
Gilgamesh didn’t fall apart until after.
He sat waiting for the after. Expecting it. Dreading it. Like those brief seconds before the needle
plunged, or the trigger squeezed, or the rope broke. When you knew it was
coming, knew the fallout would be fierce, but you were still able to live in
the half second between knowledge and acknowledge.
Body can only withstand so much . . .
At first he rode the whiplash – good days, bad days, last days. Now he
just sat in the chair. Watching, monitoring, waiting. Hope slow-dripped in the percentage
points. In the statistics. In the oxygen levels.
And then it got worse. He found himself outside the glass again. Looking
in. Afraid to look. Modern Medicine hunkered down, battle ready. He felt a
listless curiosity. And then he felt nothing. He stopped looking.
Enkidu took twelve days. They were now going on sixty three.
He sat as silent sentinel, lost in his own misery, until an unexpected
movement shattered the Shivah. He watched the pale, bruised hand tug at the
edge of the blanket. He blinked. He saw the hand slide up toward the tubes,
fingers moving, touching, exploring. He couldn’t get his brain around the
action. Around the movement. Around the implication.
He stood. His eyes remained transfixed on the hand that now patted the
blanket. First slow, then faster. Emphatic. He moved forward, mesmerized. When
he got close enough, the hand reached out, touched his shirt. He stepped back.
Recoiled. Confused.
Enkidu had touched Gilgamesh’s heart for courage.
Finally, he tore his eyes away from the hand, sucked in a breath, and
for the first time in thirteen days, he looked at the face and into the eyes. Wide
open questions. Raised eyebrows that
only meant one thing. But he didn’t
understand now. He couldn’t remember. He had lost that language sixty three
days ago on the bloodstained concrete in the middle of their urban forest.
He looked back down at the hand again. The fingers curled in and he
watched the thumb turn up and out. A signal? A statement? Assurance? He fought
the hope that snaked its way up his neck, insidious and false. Worse than no
hope.
He watched the subsequent invasion from a dream. Doctors, nurses, new
meds, different tests, steady heartbeats. He hung back. Waiting. Watching.
Gilgamesh had to be pushed into the fight.
The hands were busy. Fighting other hands, pushing away needles, tugging
at tubes. The first wave slowed and he dared to look at the face again. The
questions still remained there, unanswered. He looked away. When he turned
back, he watched the hand rise, saw the fingers curl down until there was just
one. One glorious, defiant, shaking finger, stabbing skyward.
The bird majestically flipped. At him.
The room shattered into a million pieces. Sixty three days fell to the
ground, knocking him back into his chair. The world came about, surged forward
once again. The wait was over. They had finally reached the after. The ever
after. The living, breathing, desperately prayed for in the middle of the
darkest nights, never to be hoped for, ever after. He looked again into the
eyes. Starsky’s eyes. Alive. Alert. Annoyed.
Everything came flooding back then. The language, the past, the reasons,
the connection. He had forgotten it all. Death had become an intimate that
allowed no distractions. No looking away.
He stood and readjusted to the experience. No longer waiting, but
observing. Noting. Absorbing. Fussing. Overdoing. Looking forward would have to
come later. That it would come was
enough to fill in all the empty spaces. It was okay for now just to look.