Bed No 11

(1)

Her rheumy eyes were tired, rather sleepy. She looked around the desolate intensive care unit of the so-called best hospital in town. There were sixteen beds; the young nurse with the upturned nose and almond eyes had informed her that each of these beds cost more than twenty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand dollars! It was more than Lucy and Joe had ever spent in a single month.

But it did not matter. If Joe could breathe again lying in the twenty-thousand-dollar bed, then let it be so.. It has been a gruelling fifty-five days of pain and struggle for Lucy. She vividly remembered the cursed afternoon when the telephone rang, “Is this the Humminway’s residence?”

Lucy replied in affirmative. Since she did not have her spectacles on, she was unable to see the number in the display screen of the receiver which had a caller-ID facility.

“This is Officer Rowen Evans. Mr Joe Hummingway was found unconscious near the Central Market about an hour ago. He has been admitted in the South Memorial. May I know who am I talking to?”

Lucy replied in a daze, “It’s his wife.”

“Mrs. Hummingway, please come as soon as you can to the hospital. From what the doctors are saying, I gather that your husband is not in the best of his health at the moment.”

Lucy had picked up her purse and ran out; she even forgot to change the bedroom slippers which she was wearing. Hailing a taxi, and fidgeting all the way, she had reached her destination in twenty minutes flat.

Her Joe lay silent. Unlike his normal self, he did not look at her through his deep brown eyes. He lay in Bed No. 11 of the sterile intensive care unit, and the handsome doctor who remotely resembled Elvis Presley, informed her that Joe may never open his eyes. She may well give her consent, as the next of kin, to take him off the ventilator.

Of course, Lucy refused. Joe will not die, leaving her alone like this. Not after what happened to their darling Kevin ten years ago. Kevin, their only son, had been on a mountaineering expedition to the Himalayas. There had been an avalanche, they said.

“Mr. Hummingway, we are sorry that we were unable to trace your son despite extensive search.”

Yes, Kevin never came back. May be he really died. May be he lies somewhere deep down in the mountains which he loved so much.

Lucy stood near Bed No. 11. It’s been fifty-five days of living hell for her, seeing her Joe struggle for each breath, each heart beat. They were well insured medically; Joe had ensured that. But it was not about money. The Elvisish healer had told her many a times, “Mrs. Hummingway, we all have to make up our minds at some point of time. There is absolutely no rush. You take your own time. Let us know when you are prepared to sign the consent to allow us to take your husband off the ventilator.” This had initially irritated Lucy. How could the scoundrel even suggest that she allow Joe to die?

But as the days wore off, Lucy started to see the futility of the entire exercise. She was holding Joe’s lifeless hands in her own, clasping tight, wishing with every passing moment that Joe opens his eyes and smiles lopsidedly at her once more. But Joe never did that. He lay still, as if she did not matter anymore; nothing mattered.

It was hard for her, these were tough times. With a determined stoop, she got up from the plastic chair near Joe’s bed. She bent down to kiss his papery forehead, perhaps for one last time. The without a second glance, she took the tiny steps to meet the doctor who looked so much like Elvis Presley.

(2)

Lucy needed a cup of coffee. No, the watery gruel at the hospital cafeteria will not do. She decided to go to the new Starbucks outlet just across the road. Of course, Joe will not be there with her to share her coffee; they always drank from the same cup, defying Kahlil Gibran. She found herself smiling at the memory.

“See Joe, you said you would never let me have a cup of coffee alone. I have signed the papers to let you go. Now, as they prepare your last journey, I defy you and will have a cup of cappuccino alone. With some extra sugar,” Lucy said to herself.

She did not see the over speeding SUV, steel grey in colour. She did not hear the people shouting at her to move out of the way. She was smiling at the memory of that first night when her Joe had made the first cup of coffee for his beloved Lucy. She was still smiling when the steel grey monster hit her from behind.

Lucy was rushed to the South Memorial. After an emergency surgical intervention, the surgeons gave up hope. But Lucy clung to life, albeit with a thin thread. Her sister Alice, who lived three thousand aeronautical miles away, was informed. Lucy needed to be kept alive till Alice came.

Lucy need not have worried. There was a vacant bed in the intensive care unit of the upscale hospital in the quaint town. The eyes of the handsome doctor who remotely looked like Elvis Presley welled up with a few drops of unshed tears in the sterile room when he saw the petite figure of Mrs. Lucy Hummingway being shifted from the operation theatre to Bed No. 11 of the intensive care unit…..