Michael Abateo - the end game

Michael Abateo had been mopping the floor when suddenly he felt the tightness in his chest. A shortness of breath startled him and it felt as if there was a huge creature sitting on his chest. Even his neck ached from its weight.

“Bastard!” He managed to complain. He collapsed onto his knees and then clumsily rolled over onto his back on the still-wet floor. He knew his clothes must be soaked but all he could register was this intense pressure. If only, he thought, he could catch a breath.

“Bastard”, he repeated.

“You’re a right bastard.” He was unconsciously rubbing his chest as if that would ease the huge weight felt there. Then, another wave of excruciating pain radiated as the elephant on his chest seem to shift slightly. Now there was also pain down his arm as well.

“Oh, you bastard!”

For some reason, along with the pain and growing fear, Michael felt such anger. He hated being on the floor held like a pinned animal unable to stand or even sit. He wriggled to release its grasp on him but his movements seem to merely lower him still further into a sandpit that felt warm and dark. The lights all went off.

A few hours later Michael began to come around and sighed in relief that the weight had been removed from his chest. He looked at his feet and saw the end of a hospital bed with a chart hanging on it. There was a confusing ringing going on and he could not determine whether it was external or internal. He was also attached to machines of some sort by lots of tubbing and his head only turned slightly with a mighty effort of will. A young nurse leant over him and said, “Hello Michael, how are you feeling?”

She was in her 20s and her tone was professional but not warm. Michael tried to respond but his mouth refused to obey him. His tongue felt like I didn’t belong to him at all. This was ridiculous. Michael moved his head from side to side in distress. The nurse put a hand on his shoulder and explained,

“You’ve had a heart attack you are now in hospital, Michael. Just you relax, the doctor will be around to talk to you soon.” She fiddled with some of the tubing and looked at the reading above him on the machine and then left. Michael turned his head and examined the room he found himself in. It was a cubicle in the accident emergency unit of the hospital. He recognised the colour scheme from when he had accompanied an elderly aunt of his who had been having an asthma attack. He never thought that he would find himself in the same cubicle having had a heart attack and struck dumb into the bargain! It was perverse really. He remembered his aunt Vicky had been suffering from dementia in the last years of her life and Michael had felt vaguely ashamed of her obvious confusion and distress at being in a strange place. Now, Michael felt he could empathise with his aunt at last. He only mourned that all those decades ago he had been so young, so full of self that he lacked the ability to put himself in her shoes. The moment he had this thought, Vicky flashed into his mind, smiling at him, wearing an apron and offering him a pastizzi from a blue plate in her kitchen. He must’ve been 12 and the smell of her kitchen in Valetta filled his senses. The picture suddenly became a video, as she absentmindedly tucked a curl behind her ear and lumbered back to her precious stove. He could even see the burn mark high on her elbow when she caught it on a hot baking shelf. Michael smiled in amazement at how much love he felt for this sweet aunt.  She turned to him and smiled again before rubbing her cheek absentmindedly. He remembered his father saying that his sister Vicki didn’t suck her thumb as a child but would often rub her cheek instead. Michael found himself amazed that all these vivid images were flooding his mind. Memories he felt sure he’d forgotten for decades. The door of the cubicle opened and the doctor entered. Michael was still entranced by his aunt Vicky who beamed at him from the other side of the room. The doctor repeated something and the second that Michael turned towards him, Vicky seemed to disappear. The doctor repeated loudly and insistently,

“Michael, can you hear me?  Michael, can you hear my voice?”

Such stupid questions! Michael answered with a nod but still, he turned his head, hunting for his aunt Vicky.  He felt very confused indeed. The doctor was talking in a ridiculously loud voice as if to an imbecile. Why, because he didn’t speak, did people think he couldn’t hear?

 “Michael, you’ve had a heart attack and we are giving you some medication. Do you feel any pain?” he asked.

Michael shook his head from side to side but the movement felt exhausting. The doctor put a cold stethoscope on Michael’s chest and wrote something down. At no point had the doctor or nurse introduced themselves. Michael thought it a bit strange. Perhaps, because he couldn’t talk, they didn’t feel the need? The doctor said something that Michael didn’t catch. There was a clip of the door shutting and then silence. Michael stared at the roof it was still pale green. He wondered how long he’d been in this bed. He’d lost track of both time and speech.  He slept.

The door opened and his local young priest was by his bed. The priest spoke,

“I know you can’t talk Michael but I’m here to give you the last rites “.

Michael felt this was very ominous indeed. Things were obviously not looking good for him. But he felt vaguely annoyed that this young priest had broken the news instead of a doctor. The priest began the ceremony and asked if Michael had anything to confess. Michael nodded out of sheer revenge. The priest looked perturbed,

“So, there is something do you want to confess!”

Michael nodded again. The young priest was thrown. Should he continue with the rites? Should he enquire as to the sin? His face showed his confusion. That nod meant he, as a priest, should try to proceed with the three sections of the confession. First the penitent should show contrition (sorrow for sins committed) then would follow disclosure of the sins (confession of sins) and finally, they would gain satisfaction (undergo penance to make amends).   The priest began cautiously to intone,

“May God who has enlightened every heart help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy. Michael, is your sin a mortal sin or a venial sin?”

Then, the door opened and a nurse stood at the entrance but seeing the priest paused at the door.  Obviously, suddenly embarrassed the priest decided to ignore his sin-filled but dumb patient and finished with a great rush of words and gestures then ran to the door.

Michael suddenly wanted to laugh for some reason. He was glad to see Vicky back at the end of his bed. She rolled her eyes at Michael,

“So many sins Michael and so little time!” But she laughed happily,

Michael looked ashamed, he shouldn’t have behaved as he had. Shouldn’t have teased the young priest. There was suddenly so much he regretted in his life.  Vicky seemed to read his mind for she smiled as she spoke,

“I read once that if priests hadn’t added vain imaginings to religion then the philosophers wouldn’t call religion vain imaginings.”

Michael found this incredibly deep and insightful. He couldn’t imagine his aunt having such thoughts. He looked at her amazed.  She continued to speak,

“The good news is that God knows all that we’ve done or left undone.  Our deeds are carved on tablets of chrysolite, it is said.  Anyway, I reckon bringing ourselves to account each day is an effective form of confession.”

Michael nodded and realised that for the first time in his life he was looking back on his life and gaining a perspective that had been missing.  In some ways he felt so sorry that it was only here, at the end of things, clarity of sorts was dawning. Aunt Vicky reassured him,

“Reflection can bring contrition, Michael. An action to make good what we have failed is making amends. It always amazes me how much people worry about bad things they’ve done but they forget to consider the good things they have done and those good deeds they left undone.”

Michael felt ashamed of how he had acted towards his aunt especially in her days of dementia.  They had both been so close when he was younger.

Aunt Vicky looked at him thoughtfully,

“I never had children.  No matter how much I longed for them it made no difference.  But you came along and changed my world.  You will never know how much your love meant to me.  It healed so much in my life.  We had so much laughter in our home because of you.  I don’t forget that. “

Michael smiled back at his aunt relieved she had only good memories of him.

Then she asked,

“Do you want to know how you should feel about death?”

Michael was startled at the question but captivated by her warmth and words. He nodded.

She said,

“We should think of death the way we think of the destination of a long journey. It’s something to look forward to, not dread.”

Michael suddenly thought of all those who he would miss, his children, his brother and sisters, his friends. She seemed to sense it and explained,

“Death doesn’t take anything away from us Michael. Those we love are ever with us.”

She beamed at him,

“Death is like breaking the cage. It frees the bird within.”

She leaned in so close Michael could smell fresh bread from her apron. There’s a lot of people who love you, waiting for you.  Your Maria is looking forward to seeing you soon. 

Michael sighed and his heart ached for all those who he had lost but especially his wife Maria.

His Aunt Vicky, walked away from the bed and suddenly there was light everywhere.  On the wall in front of him, he saw his life unfold kaleidoscope-like.  Then, the light grew so bright it made everything else disappear, even Michael.

 

 PS if you have missed the other previous instalments of Michael Abateo here are the links

https://colette-windflowers.blogspot.com/2012/09/maria-and-michael-abateo-forty-winks.html

https://colette-windflowers.blogspot.com/2018/06/michael-deals-with-dirt-and-life.html

https://colette-windflowers.blogspot.com/2018/10/michael-abateo-drugs-buses-and-buckets.html

https://colette-windflowers.blogspot.com/2018/12/an-unexpected-cure-for-all-ills.html

At our age, there needs to be a good reason to run – like the house is on fire or someone is firing a gun

My two grandsons, 3 and 5 years old, were coming to stay. It would only be for two days but we had steadied ourselves, my mum and I. Looked at each other with a football manager’s eye. What shape are you in? Is that hip weak? Can those ankles take it? Have you taken all your medication? Checking up on the team before the invasion. With my mum in her mid-80s and me in my 60s, we are pretty old for this game.

They arrive with a flurry of hugs, boundless energy and laughter. All too soon we are left alone with two little guys who want to explore every quarter, all rooms, every cupboard, the garage the garden and all shelves that they can possibly reach.  Privacy goes out the window as they bang on the toilet door demanding to know "what are you doing in there?" We walk them to the park and local playground. It was frightening for us. My eldest grandson has a cast on his arm from fracturing his elbow and the playground seemed right for compounding the injury. Kids are not like adults in so many ways. They, in a cast, will happily scamper up a climbing wall or the tallest helter-skelter slide. My mum and I ran like demented bodyguards after the two of them. Danger seemed incredibly close and we walked home relieved everyone had survived. Even the eldest with his cast had insisted on trying the zip line and managed remarkably well. Don't ask why unearth we let him do it. We have no idea!!

By the time we got home to a welcome cup of tea and a quiet sit the two boys had already eaten, instantly recharged and were as full of energy as before. Now mum and I began to worry. It was barely 10.30am and we were ready to be substituted. Fortunately, my middle son their uncle had boundless energy like the boys. While mum and I sneaked off for a badly needed midday nap he ran them around the house playing wrestling games.  We awoke refreshed but aware the rest of the day lay ahead. 

A box of old toys from the garage was salvaged and the boys fell on them like wolves. We built Lego together, played an ancient basketball game that their father had played more than 30 years ago (the exact same toy, conserved in mum’s garage over the decades).  The boys were constantly good-humoured. Normally they were instructed by their parents, when they had eaten enough, to stop. We, grandmother and great-grandmother, adopted an alternative approach. We force-fed the two of them rather like they stuff ducks. Until they’d hold up their hands and say no more. We would ignore that and keep filling their tanks. They were obviously nonplussed by this novel handling. The eldest examining us strangely as if we didn't know the rules at all. The first day we fed them until they had indigestion. The second day the boys were more cautious, having learned that we would feed them dangerously full. Their appetites seemed smaller and both mum and I fretted. What if our small charges starved under our careless care?   Meanwhile, our own intakes had increased substantially. I was downing chocolate and crisps in minutes of stolen time. My mum had taken to eating three Choc ices (white chocolate of course) a day. Regularly smuggling them behind her back to the living room so the boys would not see them. In our second day, all the rules went out the window. Survival was the goal and we thrived on their hugs like an energy source. 

They were challenges. Like mum finding a small brown leaf on the bathroom floor, it turned out not to be vegetation at all, least said! Or discovering that some small fingers had turned on the electric blanket on the bed in the spare room. Buttons are an attraction for the under fives. So we needed to check freezer plugs, electric fireplaces and phones constantly. Small children are a bit like controlling a flood. When you manage to block them touching the cooker switches immediately they head for the TV or sound system or computer. The running around the house both inside and outside seem frenetic but was good humoured. At our age, there needs to be a good reason to run – like the house is on fire or someone is firing a gun in your direction. At their age running seemed the default setting as did the shouting and laughter. 

At night they usually have a bath in their own home and when I told the three-year-old we had no bath he didn't believe me. He pushed into the bathroom hunting for one. Finding none he reluctantly agreed to sit on a small stool in the shower while I showered him.  I was telling him that his great grandmother believes most people have dirty bottoms and claims that the shower-head should be directed at this extremity from below not above. Our three-year-old took this piece of advice very seriously and sprayed his own bottom and me (by accident) with equal gusto. When both were washed and in clean pyjamas in bed my mum and I gave each other high-fives. We had survived this invasion of love.  Grandmother and great grandmother’s tanks were topped up with love.  They may be small containers but little people pack a big punch in the love stakes.

Blood and gusts, urine and rescue

Northern Ireland reminds me so much of my roots. Sitting in the waiting room in the haematology Department I get chatting to an 85-year-old fellow patient. Our conversation was triggered by a much older man nearby getting his blood taken in a treatment room. Being wheelchair bound and extremely deaf, every exchange with the staff is audible to all in the waiting room outside. His medical records indicate he was born on the 10^th of February and the nurse treating him comments that her father was also born on that day. He asks loudly, “but what year was he born?” The nurse answers with, “1933” and his response to that is, “Sure, he’s only a young one isn’t he?” Or to be more accurate what he actually said was “Ach sure e’s only a yungon ainy?”  But I shall spare all of you any more of the deadly Northern Ireland dialect.

The people in the waiting room smile in response, feeling much better about their own age. The man beside me is also a young one born in 1933 and informs me he is the youngest of a family of eight. His elder sister never married and lived until her 97^th year, a lovely kind woman he tells me.  One of his brothers was in the military and died in his 50s, this was accompanied by a sad sigh of loss despite the decades that have since passed. We talk of places and family. His name is Anderson and I also have family members called Anderson but he comes from a different area entirely in Northern Ireland called Cookstown. I told him I have a relative who ran the pharmacy in Cookstown for years and suddenly I realise the unknown person beside me in Northern Ireland is invariably either related/lives beside a relative/or went to school with a relative.

The communication goes deeper and we share our relief at the rescue of the Thai youngsters from the dark deep water-logged cave. In such moments humans show their compassion and unity in longing for their safe rescue. All of us have become invested in these young footballers. Their release is a joyous relief. Of course, we are picky about our investment of emotional attachment. Thousands drowning in the Mediterranean pluck few heartstrings but a tiny toddler face down in the surf of a beach breaks through our intellectual defences. Likewise, millions facing desperate conditions in Yemen don’t make it onto our newspapers. Instead, the infantile posturing of the self-important gets three-inch high headlines. The worst humanitarian disaster facing humanity at present is considered of little or no impact importance in this perverse world of ours.

My 85-year-old fellow patient is struggling to maintain his garden these days just like my mum. They are both suffering from the present hosepipe ban. The younger gardeners manage by using watering cans but for the over 80s they just have to watch their flowers wilt and fade while their lawns grow brown and die. He tells me he was the last child born in his family and was 18 pounds at birth*.  He’s a nice good-natured 85-year-old, well dressed and well spoken. I tell him he’s lucky to have been brought up in a big family surrounded by loved ones.

Then, he says all his brothers and sisters have since died. The last he lost was a sister 12 years ago.  He’s all alone now. No brothers or sisters, his wife gone and his only son lives abroad. I had idly thought that the lonely were usually drug addicts or alcoholics who had systematically broken or abused every family relationship until they were homeless with no one left to care. I had not factored in that death in old age is equally effective in breaking all the loving bonds that unite families.  Gradually death casts aside all the mooring lines that attach you to others. Drifting off, these individuals are unexpected alone after a lifetime of being loved and surrounded by kindness. They don’t expect it and have no time to acclimatise to this new brutal reality. They have all the social skills that life in a loving family cultivates. They’re good-natured, long-suffering, grateful for all the special souls that have shared this journey with them. But suddenly they bereft and alone facing hospital visits and treatment alone. There is no one to share the bad news with. It fills my heart with sudden sympathy. They cultivate a new kinship with those in here to get blood tests regularly and most seem to know each other. Suddenly, as the conversations develop the noise levels rise and it makes me feel Northern Irish. That characteristic chattiness and love of a good gossip binds and quickly unites us.  They’re talking about football now anticipating the big game tomorrow as one man in a wheelchair is wheeled out of a treatment room and placed beside us.  As the consultant passes back into the treatment room he points out to the nurse that “We seem to have a leak here!”  Horrified everyone notices that the man’s wheelchair is parked in a puddle of urine that has dripped from his chair.  The consultant closes this door, the nurse rushes to get cleaning material and we are all left in awkward silence.

Into the humiliating silence, people unexpectedly begin to share tales of their own humiliation. Some are really cracking tales told in commiseration for the chap in the wheelchair.  One character, Jesse, a middle-aged man in a red tracksuit says his bowels stopped working a year ago. He was given fibre gel, lactose, senna etc and growing arsenal of stuff designed to give him a good ‘pull through’ as my grandfather would call it. All to no avail in Jesse's case,” I was blocked up as if by cement!” He explained.  “They give me everything short of dynamite to get me going but all failed. After three weeks I felt my innards would explode if no relief came. I was swollen like a pregnant pup and the pain was awful. I could barely sit and standing was not much better!  Anyway, unknown to me my doc arranged for me to be hospitalised. They took me on board this ambulance for a 10-minute drive to the local hospital. I didn’t make it. Eight minutes into the trip, my bowels finally decided to get going after being on strike for three weeks. There was I, in the back of an ambulance, having the bowel movement of the century. I apologised to the wee lass with me in the back of the ambulance and the driver and the nurse who helped clean me up on the ward later. I thought I’d be mortified beyond belief! But you know what, I was rightly relieved and grateful too! It’s not until you can’t do something that you begin to appreciate the miracle of anything.” 

It was a cracking tale that had us all laughing in stitches. Even the poor guy sitting in the wheelchair in a puddle started giggling.  The nurse came back into the waiting room mop and bucket in hand. First, she sprayed some disinfectant on the floor and then carefully mopped up the urine, moving the wheelchair to get underneath.  Then she left and the humiliation was back in the room.  Everyone knew he was sitting in soaking clothes wet and uncomfortable.

We were rescued by a white-haired lady sitting opposite who shared her story of humiliation. Once she’d been a deputy head of school and had gone in to talk to the headmaster in his office. While there she felt an unexpected urge to fart. While not been able to avoid passing wind she did manage to do so silently, “silent but deadly” she informed the riveted room. After the conversation was over she left the office happy that she had got away with the unexpected gust without being noticed.  A few minutes later she realised she had left her handbag in the office and returned to the office knocking briefly before entering to retrieve her bag. There, she found the headmaster with the office window open using a large newspaper to waft out the offending smell.  She said, “I didn’t know where to look, I actually put my hands over my eyes, I was that ashamed.  I left the office without saying a word and thought suicide was my only option!”  In the silence that followed we all howled in mirth.  The room was full of riotous laughter and good humour.  There are true comedians skilled in tales to bring you back from the edge of despair.  Sharing their own humiliation turned an unmitigated disaster into something else for all of us. 

_.

* I found this almost unbelievable but then found out afterwards that the record for "heaviest birth" is currently held by Anna Bates, who gave birth to a boy weighing 22 pounds in Seville, Ohio, on January 19, 1879.