The Inevitable

The Inevitable 

She never imagined it would be like this—they never do. 

Her name is Millie. She sits in a cold metal chair as her daughter tucks a heavy gray blanket around her as if it, like her own determination, could anchor her mother to this mortal coil.

Millie’s family gathers around her. Many of them are wondering if this is the last time they will all be together. It shows in the whites of their eyes. A gray-tinged sadness lingers in the room like the smell of stale tobacco smoke. Their muted conversations carry it, the way they lean in, speaking in hushed tones, as if everyone else doesn’t know what they are saying. It’s felt in the way they shift their weight in their own cold metal chairs. It’s an uncomfortable, restless energy, as if some of them would rather be anywhere else but here. Humans don’t like being this close to death—it reminds them of their own mortality.

A loud pop startles the room, followed by a shrill squeal. All eyes turn as one of the great-grandchildren darts away from a red balloon that now dangles limp and deflated from the bouquet of red and white balloons that flank the cake table.

“What was that?” Millie asks.

“Just a popped balloon,” I reply as one of Millie’s granddaughters scolds her exuberant child. The child giggles and runs to find something else to amuse her. Of all the family members in this room, she is the most comfortable, the most unconcerned, the most alive—the thought of death has never occurred to her.

Millie turns her rheumy eyes in my direction. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Are you planning to stay for a bit?” Millie asks.

“I don’t have anywhere else I need to be at the moment.” I’m still watching the little girl flit about the room. I don’t spend a lot of time with children like her—so full of life.

“That’s good,” Millie says.

“Really?” I ask.

“Of course! Everyone is welcome. Today is my one hundredth birthday.”

“That’s quite a milestone.”

“Truly is,” Millie says, her eyes glazing over as if her mind has wandered to places far from this room. Her finger taps the arm of her chair. “I’m trying to remember.”

“Remember what?” I ask.

“The last time I saw you.”

“Oh, that.”

“Do you remember?” she asks.

“I do.”

“I can’t quite put my finger on it. My memory is not so good these days.” Millie raises one gnarled hand slowly. One arthritic finger rests on her stubbly chin for a few moments before she raises it to her lips. The corner of her mouth quivers downward. “But I do remember the first time I saw you.”

“As do I.”

“I didn’t care for you much back then,” Millie confesses.

I wait for her to continue.

“I was much too young for such a visitor.” Millie's eyes widen as she says the last word with an uncharacteristic amount of venom. “One moment I’m sitting next to my dad in the car, and the next moment he’s gone.”

“Losing a parent is hard,” I say, my thoughts drifting back to the accident. A drunk driver swerved into oncoming traffic, hitting Millie and her father’s car head-on. The driver’s side had taken the brunt of the impact. Millie’s father died on impact, but not the drunk driver. He walked away with only a few scratches. It was times like those when I did my job, but only out of a sense of duty, because someone had to do it.

“It is…” Millie agrees. “It is…but not as hard as losing a child. I’ve lost two, you know.”

I nod.

Millie continues. “It ain’t right. A mother shouldn’t outlive her children. You should know that.” She raises that bony finger again and levels it in my direction.

“That’s not for me to decide.”

Millie purses her lips and shakes her head. She doesn’t believe me. Most don’t.

“I’ve lost too many.” She says, and we sit in that acknowledgment for several minutes before she adds, “But now—I’m glad you are here.”

I wonder if she really means it, so I ask, “And why is that?”

“Look at me!” she says, and I do. I look at her, and I know what she is thinking. It’s the same thing a lot of them think when they get to this point.

Millie’s head dips and turns away from me. She fiddles for a moment with her blanket. She fumbles around for a while before she finally produces a crumpled tissue from her pocket.

After several minutes, she continues, “When I was young, back before the accident, a nurse came to my grade school. She gave everyone a pair of sunglasses, several cotton balls, and some Vaseline in a little plastic cup. She had us smear the Vaseline on the glasses and stuff the cotton balls in our ears. It was supposed to help us understand what it is like to be old, but we were young, and none of us could imagine we would ever end up like that. But here I am.”

Here she is, captive to time and old age, wishing she could pull the stuffing out of her ears and take off those petroleum-smeared glasses.

“I’m ready, you know.” she says.

“I know.”

“Do you think it will be today?”

“Not today, but soon.”

Millie grew still. “When I was little, I didn’t think much about death, only a handful of times at the funerals of distant relatives.” Millie shudders. “I don’t care much for open caskets. I’ve given my children strict instructions that my casket is to be closed.”

I have attended few funerals since my job is done by that point, but I agree with Millie. Open caskets are a shockingly morbid human affair, with the corpses painted and stained in death in more vibrant shades of blush and pink than they ever were in life.   

“Anyway…” Millie continues. “When I was little, death was far from my mind, but then, after the accident…” Her voice trails off, her eyes misting over. It is still hard for her to talk about the accident. “After that I thought about it a lot, and now…”

I wait, but she is quiet. She closes her eyes, and I wonder if she has fallen asleep. She does that sometimes. But then her eyes slowly open, and she levels those cloudy, gray eyes at me and says, “You have haunted me for years now. I used to hate you for it, but not anymore. Now—I think I understand. We all have our jobs to do, and I think mine is just about done.”

I nod, and she nods. We are in agreement. It’s not always like this, but I’m grateful when it is.

She closes her eyes again, and this time I think she really is sleeping. I watch as her head dips lower and lower. She is one of my favorites—a brave soul who faces death with a gentle acceptance.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. That long, slow exhale will become that soft, dry whisper of turning the last page. There is a wisdom that comes with age. A wisdom that learns to welcome the inevitable. This is all of that and something else. It is the quiet, gentle resolve of a woman waiting to die.