Decay

You don’t know me. I’m the middle aged woman you saw the other day as you were leaving the hospital, the one who screamed profanities into the air and shoved an empty wheelchair at the door. I’m sorry about the crashing noise, it really startled you, I could tell. I saw you again today walking into this room, so I wanted to leave you a note here, hoping that you might read it.

When you saw me, I had just visited my mom for the first time here. It was her second day. A recent stroke left her body physically immobile, but it did even more damage to her ego. During my visit, she sat quietly in bed, her focus scattered somewhere in front. I peeled two clementines and put them in a small bowl by her bedside. She stayed still.

My mother looked unrecognizable to me. Her vulnerabilities were on display, not stored in boxes, not lurking in crevices. I brushed stray hairs away from her face and tucked them behind her ears. My fingertips smelled sweet and tart. And then I bent over and kissed her cheek. She didn’t push me away.

My mother used to tell me, if she were ever in a life or death situation and the doctors ask if they should try to save her, “Tell them no,” she said. She didn’t want to live if she isn’t going to be able to take care of herself. “I have a very specific way of washing my own underwear,” she said.

I always thought that there would be a moment, between the doctor telling me that my mother is about to die and saving her. I thought it would be a decision to be made then, that there would be time to think and absorb the situation. But that’s not how it happened.

The doctor mentioned her situation and got to work. They did all that they could to save her. And they did, they saved her life — except her body is now disconnected from her brain. She can no longer get off the bed, scratch her face, or talk. Her mind can’t control any of it anymore, not her arms and legs, not her voice, not even her tears.

The nurse showed me what to do, how to wipe her body and brush her hair. She said I must be diligent, because it’s the skin that often dies first — the skin on the backside that never leaves the bed, it eventually suffocates and decays on its own.

When you saw me, I was just thinking about all of that. How could it be? That a non-specific portion of skin can give up and die first? Isn’t skin all connected? What is skin, anyway? What is an appropriate unit of skin? How does skin decide which gets to die and which gets left behind?

I was thinking about all of that while trying to remember what it’s called. There’s a term for decomposing skin on a living person. I remember reading it from a book, when I was on the train from work, exhausted, and the lady next to me was knitting a bright orange scarf with brown patches. And I remember thinking to myself: now that’s an interesting colour choice, it reminded me of rotting pumpkins.

So I was distracted when you saw me. And when the wheelchair got stuck by the door, the jolt threw me off completely and I took it out on the chair and it startled you. I’m so sorry.

I hope this letter gives you some comfort. I’m sure you’re dealing with something, too. There’s hardly a happy reason to be at a hospital. I wish you all the best.

Take care,

Josie

PS. By the way, the word came to me while writing this letter to you — it’s gangrene.