When Your Number Is Up

Soon after the doctor pronounced my mother dead, offered his condolences and closed the hospital door, I heard a commotion in the corridor.  I was sitting next to the bed, staring at my mother’s hand, wondering if it was normal to remove rings from the deceased, and, if so, whether it was my job or the undertaker’s.  My mother’s fingers had grown thin in her dying; it would not take much to slip them off now.

Before I could decide, the clamor in the hall grew louder and closer.  Even in my grief, I was ready to go out and ask the noisemakers to it keep down—in honor of the deceased, if nothing else. Besides, if one is paying for a private room, some quiet should accompany the hefty fee.

As I began to rise from the chair, the door burst open.  I fell into my seat.

Two men with large video cameras, the lenses pushed against their eyes, walked in backwards and quickly moved to opposite sides of the room.

A woman carrying a microphone bounded in.  Her smile remained fixed as she rushed to my side. She turned to face a camera and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.  The other camera focused on the door, recording the grand entrance.

A suit with a full head of gray hair pushed through the door. I recognized him.  For the past few weeks, I had passed his photo posted near the hospital entrance, Chief Administrator etched beneath the frame.  He hugged to his chest what appeared to be a large, rectangular poster board.

Behind this pair came my mother’s doctor and several of her nurses.  They were followed by some aides I had seen on the floor and other hospital employees I did not recognize. As each person entered, he or she waved at me then moved quickly away from the door as others behind tried to squeeze in.

Soon, one of the cameramen tapped me on the shoulder and gestured at my chair.  I got up and the man slid the chair over to the other corner and stood on it.

Finally, in the door appeared a man playing trumpet, a woman on banjo, and several others who strummed or blew on instruments I could not see.  Everyone in the band wore sequined vests, white ruffled shirts, and bow ties.  The music grew louder, more upbeat, reached a crescendo, then stopped.

Everyone in the room reached their hands into small plastic bags and tossed confetti into the air, cheering.

Without breaking her smile, the woman with the microphone said, “Congratulations, Mr. Evans.  Your mother was the 100,000 death in Greater End Hospital’s long and illustrious history.  You must be very excited.”

She pushed the microphone into my face.  My mouth moved but no words came out.  The crowd broke into another cheer.

The Chief Administrator, who had managed to get within a few feet of me, raised his hand for silence.  He grinned and said, “We hope this check for. . . ”—he paused a dramatic moment then burst out—“$100,000 will help alleviate some of the pain you must be feeling at the moment of your beloved’s demise.”  He turned the cardboard sheet around, an oversized check to be paid to “The Estate of Death #100,000.”  The band started up again.

The woman with the microphone pushed her way back in front of the camera: “But that’s not all.  You also get a free funeral at Hacker’s House of Funerals, free flowers for the service from Beyond Bouquets, and the gravesite of your mother’s choice—or rather, your choice—in Lots of Plots Cemetery!”

The crowd let out a whoop.

Bottles of champagne and clear plastic glasses appeared. Everyone toasted my mother, who remained silent and still.  A couple of nurses even sat on the side of the bed while they chatted about the patient in the next room, enjoying the respite from their daily contact with death.  After the champagne bottles were emptied, the crowd slipped out without fanfare.

And, now, almost six months later, as I sit in my newly furnished living room and again watch the video—presented to me as part of the gift package—I still cannot see anyone sliding my mother’s rings off her fingers. Nor have I decided whether to file a complaint with the hospital or just let it go. They have, after all, been very kind to me.

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