The wheel announced his arrival. A squeaky fanfare for an aged, flailing cheerleader with a decrepit sense of rhythm and an Alzheimer's memory for steps. Barely afloat on a sea of confusion he clung to a sinking mattress raft. Wild eyes seeking dry land while doctors and nurses surrounded him like plundering pirates or sharks sensing blood. Soothing voices and sedatives eased his panic, sapped his strength like a mermaid's hypnotic chorus. Inexorably drawn towards the rocks he slowly began to sink. Behind quickly drawn curtains I heard the stunted count of resuscitation amid the efficient turmoil of the hospital ward. No glamour here, no striking doctor to save the day with unfeasible miracles. No Clooney, no Edwards, no beautiful nurse to save the dying with improbable initiative and stunning good looks. So it was with a horrid fascination that I listened to his family's grief, a shabby guilt ridden intrusion. It occurred to me then, that dying in front of strangers is scant reward for life. |