Nelson's Brother
by Doug Smith
Two women and two men huddled outside of room 224, their faces and body language revealing their engagement in a topic of grave concern. A nursing assistant in green scrubs briskly pushed a cart of medical supplies down the corridor, going from east to west. A nurse in blue scrubs carrying a clipboard rushed down the corridor, going from west to east. Overhead, a voice broadcasted the immediate need for a doctor in room 252.
Inside the open door of room 229, a bed-bound man peered out at anyone who walked or rushed past his room. The man had the appearance of a Holocaust victim peering out of a barbed wire fence, hungering to be anyplace other than where he was at that moment. The man’s roommate was hidden behind a pulled curtain, apparently trying to escape his current circumstances through the turned-up volume of a television game show.
The door to room 231 was closed. Several ominous signs on the door indicated that no one should, or would want to, enter the room that was not a medical professional. The signs gave the impression of a crime-scene tape roping off the path of any possible interloper.
Inside room 233, behind the closed door, Nelson lay in his bed. His intense pain came in waves, each wave of pain more intense than the last wave. Everyone in the room knew that Nelson’s pains were going to culminate in his death, which they all felt could be very soon. His wife hovered over the bed leaning on the railing on one side of Nelson, his sister hovered over the other side of the bed leaning on the other railing. In the floor space remaining in the room, Nelson’s brother paced back and forth. I, Nelson’s best friend, sat in a chair by the room’s door examining everyone else in the room.
As the waves of Nelson’s pain got intense, both his wife and his sister would lean in further and try to physically comfort him. They would stroke his hair. They would massage his shoulders. They would hold his hand. They would rub his feet. Nelson’s brother, on the other hand, would remain pacing, hunched over, occasionally looking at his brother lying in the bed, but usually looking at the room’s floor and anything on it: the wheels on the bed, the wheels on the bed table, the base of the room’s lamp, his shoes, my shoes, his sister’s shoes, his sister-in-law’s shoes.
Nelson’s eyes were directed up towards the ceiling. He never looked at any of the occupants of the room, all his energy seemingly focused on the ceiling or internally. When his eyes were closed, his head remained in the same position – aimed upwards. Whether his eyes were open or closed, his facial muscles twitched with each wave of pain.
I looked again at Nelson’s brother. He was a big man, like me and like Nelson. Beer drinkers all of us; our stomachs testifying to such. Nelson’s brother’s stomach testified to it the most. Green Bay Packers’ fans all of us, Nelson’s brother being the loudest and most vocal fan.
What was causing Nelson’s brother to do all his pacing? Did he want to run out of the room? Did he want to stay in the room and do something but didn’t know what to do? Did he want to say something to his brother but didn’t know what to say? Maybe he wanted to touch his brother in a loving way, like his sister and sister-in-law, but had never touched his brother out of love. The biggest physical show of affection I ever witnessed between the two was when I saw Nelson’s brother give Nelson a friendly punch in the arm.
How could I test my suspicion? Did I need to say something? Did I need to do something? Something had to be said. Something had to be done. I somehow felt something needed to change, and I needed to be the one to do it.
I stood up.
Nelson’s brother looked at me. Then Nelson’s wife looked at me. Then Nelson’s sister.
I casually walked over to the room’s bathroom. I took a washcloth and put it under the faucet as cold water poured over it. I then wrung out most of the water and walked out of the bathroom carrying the wet washcloth. Everyone’s eyes except Nelson’s were on me. Nelson’s eyes were still directed towards the ceiling.
I went over to the hospital bed. I asked Nelson’s sister to move aside. All eyes were on me, even Nelson’s this time, even Nelson’s brother’s – who had stopped pacing, seemingly puzzled about what I was doing.
As each wave of pain came, I took the wet washcloth and gently tapped Nelson’s forehead. I did that for three waves of the pain. I then held the washcloth out towards Nelson’s brother and gave a look that I was hoping conveyed that it was now his turn. Nelson was now looking at his brother. They were looking at one another.
Nelson’s brother grabbed the washcloth, touched his brother’s forehead just briefly, then fell on his brother and held him as tight as he could.
Inside the open door of room 229, a bed-bound man peered out at anyone who walked or rushed past his room. The man had the appearance of a Holocaust victim peering out of a barbed wire fence, hungering to be anyplace other than where he was at that moment. The man’s roommate was hidden behind a pulled curtain, apparently trying to escape his current circumstances through the turned-up volume of a television game show.
The door to room 231 was closed. Several ominous signs on the door indicated that no one should, or would want to, enter the room that was not a medical professional. The signs gave the impression of a crime-scene tape roping off the path of any possible interloper.
Inside room 233, behind the closed door, Nelson lay in his bed. His intense pain came in waves, each wave of pain more intense than the last wave. Everyone in the room knew that Nelson’s pains were going to culminate in his death, which they all felt could be very soon. His wife hovered over the bed leaning on the railing on one side of Nelson, his sister hovered over the other side of the bed leaning on the other railing. In the floor space remaining in the room, Nelson’s brother paced back and forth. I, Nelson’s best friend, sat in a chair by the room’s door examining everyone else in the room.
As the waves of Nelson’s pain got intense, both his wife and his sister would lean in further and try to physically comfort him. They would stroke his hair. They would massage his shoulders. They would hold his hand. They would rub his feet. Nelson’s brother, on the other hand, would remain pacing, hunched over, occasionally looking at his brother lying in the bed, but usually looking at the room’s floor and anything on it: the wheels on the bed, the wheels on the bed table, the base of the room’s lamp, his shoes, my shoes, his sister’s shoes, his sister-in-law’s shoes.
Nelson’s eyes were directed up towards the ceiling. He never looked at any of the occupants of the room, all his energy seemingly focused on the ceiling or internally. When his eyes were closed, his head remained in the same position – aimed upwards. Whether his eyes were open or closed, his facial muscles twitched with each wave of pain.
I looked again at Nelson’s brother. He was a big man, like me and like Nelson. Beer drinkers all of us; our stomachs testifying to such. Nelson’s brother’s stomach testified to it the most. Green Bay Packers’ fans all of us, Nelson’s brother being the loudest and most vocal fan.
What was causing Nelson’s brother to do all his pacing? Did he want to run out of the room? Did he want to stay in the room and do something but didn’t know what to do? Did he want to say something to his brother but didn’t know what to say? Maybe he wanted to touch his brother in a loving way, like his sister and sister-in-law, but had never touched his brother out of love. The biggest physical show of affection I ever witnessed between the two was when I saw Nelson’s brother give Nelson a friendly punch in the arm.
How could I test my suspicion? Did I need to say something? Did I need to do something? Something had to be said. Something had to be done. I somehow felt something needed to change, and I needed to be the one to do it.
I stood up.
Nelson’s brother looked at me. Then Nelson’s wife looked at me. Then Nelson’s sister.
I casually walked over to the room’s bathroom. I took a washcloth and put it under the faucet as cold water poured over it. I then wrung out most of the water and walked out of the bathroom carrying the wet washcloth. Everyone’s eyes except Nelson’s were on me. Nelson’s eyes were still directed towards the ceiling.
I went over to the hospital bed. I asked Nelson’s sister to move aside. All eyes were on me, even Nelson’s this time, even Nelson’s brother’s – who had stopped pacing, seemingly puzzled about what I was doing.
As each wave of pain came, I took the wet washcloth and gently tapped Nelson’s forehead. I did that for three waves of the pain. I then held the washcloth out towards Nelson’s brother and gave a look that I was hoping conveyed that it was now his turn. Nelson was now looking at his brother. They were looking at one another.
Nelson’s brother grabbed the washcloth, touched his brother’s forehead just briefly, then fell on his brother and held him as tight as he could.
Doug Smith is now writing short stories and poetry on care for the dying after publishing several nonfiction books and journal articles on the same subject. He teaches at Northern Michigan University.