Abstract
“D
I noticed the words were and had—both past tense.
He paused and fidgeted with his bed sheets. “Well…um…” He took a deep breath as tears welled up in his eyes. “John died last night. I heard all of the ruckus at about two in the morning. They tried to save him, but…” His voice trailed off as he started to cry.
“We played poker last night, even planned to get together once we got out of here. And…and…now he's dead.”
“And Bob, he left for hospice this morning…you know what that means.”
Mr. Jones had been a tough Marine, but disease, time, and loss had taken a toll. There was nothing for me to do but sit, listen, and be present.
He looked up toward the ceiling, his eyes red from crying. “I miss those guys doc, we became friends, hell, we became family. We shared a common enemy.”
He held up a photo. “This is John and Bob.” Two pale, stick-like figures stared out from the photo. “I didn't even get to say goodbye to them. They were the best friends I ever had. Do you know why doc? Do you? Because we were close to death every day—the kind of death you can't run from.”
He took a deep breath. “Two weeks ago the guy in the room next to me died. I heard his family screaming and pounding on the walls. Then I saw the gurney as they took him to the morgue.”
He grabbed the bedrails and squeezed until his hands were white. “It's getting to me doc…it's getting to me.”
Mr. Jones' life was unraveling like a loose thread pulled from the sleeve of a shirt. As a career Marine, he was used to control and consistency, but now he had neither. He needed to talk, and he needed to talk now, so for the next hour I sat and listened as he told stories, stories that helped numb the frayed edges of loss. We cried, we laughed, and then we cried some more, and after the tears were dried, we made a plan to talk again in the morning.
As I stood to leave, I thought of the emotional trauma that patients endure surrounded by the presence of death, especially on an oncology ward. It's terrifying and traumatic, and compounds the myriad other losses that accompany a life-threatening illness. It's also a frightening reminder of our fragile impermanence.
“Doc, a Marine never leaves anyone behind…never.”
He struggled to sit up in bed. “John and Bob, they left me behind.” His words seemed conflicted and uncertain.
“Don't get me wrong doc, I'm not mad at them, and hell, I don't want to die. And really, this ain't a Marine thing, I don't know why I even said that. I just don't want to be alone, and now I am.”
He collapsed back on the bed. “I was a lifer Marine, I didn't have a wife and kids. John and Bob were the only family I had.”
Then he turned to me, narrowed his eyes, and saluted. “Semper fi.”
I saluted him back. “Semper fi.”
He reached over and pushed the button on his pain pump, and fell into a soporific stupor.
“Do you think…anyone…will…miss…me…doc?” His voice was pensive—he knew his days were nearing an end.
“Everyone will miss you Mr. Jones.”
His eyes slowly closed. “See…you…in….the……morning…….doc.”
“See you in the morning,” I said.
But I didn't—he died that night. The Marine was no longer left behind…and no longer alone.
Later that day, as I walked down the hall past the parade of patients with metal poles and dangling chemicals and bald heads and blank stares, I felt someone grab my arm.
I turned to look. An emaciated older man in a food-stained hospital gown stood face to face with me.
“Sorry to bother you doctor. Do you know where Mr. Jones is?”
“Mr. Jones passed last night.”
“Oh, I didn't know.” He paused, a bit shaken. “I'm gonna miss him.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “Me too.”