Beep continued

I stand at the check-in station just inside the main entrance, the guard holds up a hand to stop me as they push off their stool to stand. She grabs an infrared thermometer and points it at my head. It makes me think of the famous Vietnam War photo of the soldier pointing a gun at a young man's head. The thermometer beeps, she squints while reading the display before announcing I have passed or I am fine, not sure what it is called. I ask about the results and she says 98 degrees. Now I am humming Because of You by 98 Degrees, both surprised and ashamed of it. The standard covid questions follow before I am given a pass granting access - a simple yellow sticker with today's date written with a Sharpie. I thank her and make my way to the elevator bank, pressing six, stepping inside and waiting for the doors to close. Everything seems so deliberate. As usual, a brief panic overwhelms me while contemplating being trapped in the elevator before there is a beep and the doors slide open. I step into an empty hallway, looking over my shoulder, watching the doors close. I silently read the sign to myself "Palliative Care", nodding to the nurse before strolling down the long, mahogany lined hallway. I drag my hand against the wall and wonder what focus group or study led to the dark wood atmosphere and decorations. Does it justify the cost? Is the wood calming? Is it easier to accept the inevitable in a ski lodge type surrounding? I find room 620 and stand at the door, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open and entering. A faint rhythmic beep reverberates around the room, the only monitoring device in use. I cannot shake the sense of finality. The shell of the man who helped create me lies in the middle of the bed - covers piled on and wrapped around the shrunken body. His jaw is open, uneven breathing, death is near or that is what they told me two days ago when I was asked (forced?) to make the "pull the plug" decision. Everybody told me it was the right thing to do (after I did it), but none of them would make it. We stood in the hallway that day, all eyes seemingly on me - waiting. Now, all I can think is that I made the decision to kill him. I wince at the irony of making that decision many times over the years. I slide the chair close to the bed and sit, placing his boney hand in mine and gently rub. I read somewhere that touch is important for healing and when spending time with the sick and elderly. Then again, there is nothing healing about this situation, so I am probably not correctly remembering anything. I feel self conscious, I lean back in the chair and survey the room. Upon reflection, this is probably the first time I have touched his hand since I was a kid. We were or are not the family of closeness and touching or any type of healthy communication. There was that fight when I was in my twenties, but no hand holding, just swinging. It feels weird that it makes me smile. Everybody loves to to retell the bad stories, but there were good times. I survey the frail body, shaking my head as I remember how safe he made me feel - a tear rolls down my cheek. I sit and let more flow, finally grabbing a tissue and drying my face. I take a deep breath and lean very close to him while placing his hand in mine again. I whisper to him, tell him I do love him and appreciate everything and forgive the bad. I swallow hard, looking around again to make sure nobody can hear me (but him), and apologize for telling the doctors to halt further efforts to fix him. I explain what they told me, they said it was hopeless. I stop and silence swallows us, I wonder if there is a chance the doctors were wrong. The silence (and darkness) is pierced by the door opening, I look up and watch the nurse enter and approach me. She pats my back, expressing her sorrow as I slowly realize the beeping is gone, he is gone. I look at her and back at him, there are no more tears, just realization. I stand and thank her, walk to the door while retrieving my cell phone. I look back as she disconnects the wires. I expect to see her cover him with a sheet, but no. I guess I watched too many police shows. I pull up my sister's number and press dial, it rings as I lean against the mahogany wall and stare down at the floor.