mind hazed in the beaconing sunlight, like Lewis did, looking for
what he saw. He was dying. There was no averting it. Was it better
to get him home? Better for him, surely, but better overall? I wasn’t
sure. It was like asking if he was better dying now or later. Who
would be easier on me.
The patch of light on the wall dimmed as if a cloud passed
across the sun when I refocused on the room. Lewis coughed still,
in steady succession only it was much weaker. Each cough drew
considerable strength and you could discern the plateaued steps
of his weakness with each attempt. A rattling hiss perpetuated
between each breath.
“I’m going to call the nurse, Lewis. We’re going to see
the chime rang deep down the hall. I looked for a way to shift him,
move the pillows that wedged him amidst the sea of the sheets, but
there was no moving him now. His was weakening. His attempts
to cough were hardly more than sighs of breath, barely audible
attempts supplanted by the rattling hiss.
She stared at Lewis and we were silent, only the hissing
exited quickly.
said, reaching for his hand. It curled out from under his head and
up and held it between mine.
The nurse burst in the room with a funnel, bottle, and some
tubing. She worked with the nozzle that jutted from above his bed
and cranked its yellow handle. Suction drowned out the slowing
hi