A.A.A. #5

When she was assigned the patient, the nurse was told: “This is a stubborn, brutal old bastard. Abdominal aortic aneurysm, and he pulled through out of pure spite.” 

Because of the numerous complications of his condition, W. had been assigned 24/7 at-home nurse care. An oxygen tank to roll around with him. Home hemodialysis six of the week’s seven days. A new wheelchair. And quarterly emptyings of the tube that now stuck out of the flesh of his stomach. It was always disorienting to the nurse to look at these tubes, see them flush with the skin, know how close the inside of this man was to her.

Looking around the home, at the ash trays and piles of newspapers, at the old mail and the computer from 1995 loading to-the-minute stock numbers, at the TV in the corner blaring Fox News, she wondered about the nature of human endurance and perseverance. To crawl to hell and back for what—for this? 

She hears a buzz; he’s calling her. She pushes the thoughts to the side. The beauty of life cannot be described, she reminds herself. We each must fight for our own solaces and keep them alive. She thought: Who am I to judge an old man? One day, I, too, will be old, and what will I do then?