John's Tears

John's Tears

John had often wondered what it was that made it so impossible for him
to shed tears. Through one cruel, twisted family death to the next, his
mother through cancer, his father through suicide, his brother through
a bus crash, his sister through miscarriage, through one funeral after
another his eyes had remained solidly and utterly dry.
Today he asked himself how he was ever to stop crying. He threw his
grief around him like a shield as he raced to get to the hospital
across town, slicing through the Gordian knot of roundabouts and
junctions. The mid-afternoon traffic had not yet increased to the
snarling snails pace of the evening's rush hour, but his driving was
hampered by one liquid after another: first his own tears that blinded
his eyes and senses, and then the rain that continued to pour itself
down onto the gaping city below it.
Only that morning, as they had sat together in their apartments dining
area, John inhaling his muesli and orange juice, and Tommy, pale and
silent after a sleepless night, simply plodding through a slice of
buttered toast, the morning weatherman had announced with a certain and
determined grin that finally by lunchtime the rain would cease and the
front would move on.
Once more a so-called expert had proved to be wrong. Here he was at
3:15 in the afternoon and still the rain was pouring itself down onto
him, turning the streets into canals, slick, greasy water edging its
way slowly into the already over-stretched storm drains.
After what seemed to John both an incredibly long time and mere
seconds, he was pulling into the car park. The car squealed to a stop
on the slippery tarmac, across two parking bays. Without stopping to
lock the doors, he was running full pelt across to the casualty
reception, the puddles splashing up his suit trousers and soaking his
socks.
Gasping, he flung damp arms on the desk. The young male receptionist
looked up, startled, at this dishevelled business man in his $500 suit
that was trying to say something. All he heard was a strange guttural
growling.
"Excuse me sir, do you require assistance?" Unseen by John, two
fingers edged closer to the panic button in.
"Is Dr. Spear around?" How he ever squeezed those words out of his
constricted throat John never knew.
"He's with a patient, sir, if you leave your name then I -"
John spotted a tall figure walking down a corridor, shoulders hunched
more than was usual. "Doctor!"
The tall thin head atop the tall thin body snapped up, trying to fix
the direction that his name was being called from.
"John." The noun came out flat, uninflected, emotionless.
"Doctor, Tommy, where . . . wha . . . can I see him?" His voice
cracked on the last word, tears spilling out of his red-rimmed eyes
and, not caring who saw them, he stared at the doctor.
"Of course you may, John. He's in here. Follow me."
Gone, John noted in some detached part of his mind, was Doctor Spear's
usual good-humoured voice, the sense of subdued amusement that had for
months now eased the heart and minds of both John and Tommy.
Suddenly, making John jump back with nerves, the doctor spoke. "In
here, John. He's in here. He's weak, but he can probably hear
you."
He opened the thick door and entered the room. All he could hear was
the rhythmic thump and wheeze of the artificial breathing apparatus
that stood in the corner. Above that was the bleeping of the heart
monitor, continuous, monotonous. John slipped another foot into the
room, letting the door click behind him. He could see his Tommy laid on
the hospital bed, pale and lifeless, as if already he was . . .
No. He cut that thought off as quickly as it had come into his mind.
He could not think like that, how could he let Tommy down like that? He
had to believe that Tommy would get better, would fight off the thing
that was killing him bit by bit, cell by cell.
It was that belief, that hope, that had kept the two of them sustained
through the last few months. That fragile sentence had not let either
of them slip down into that welcoming black of depression and
listlessness. Somehow that thought had sprouted invisible wings that
had held them aloft in a glow that, if not golden, then at least wasn't
dark and bleak.
Stood there in that almost silent room, John could feel that the black
was close, that austere lifeless rock face that could support nothing
was unbearably, perhaps mortally, close now.
Seconds ticked by, minutes crept, all into that irretrievable space
that is known as 'Past'. John remained where he was, suddenly afraid to
approach that figure on the bed that he had known so intimately.
But if he didn't go now, would he ever do it?
Spurred into action by his own uncharitableness, he darted to the bed
and hooked the nearby chair into a position where he was able to clasp
Tommy's damp hand in his own and look at his face.
"Tommy, it's me, it's John. I'm here now, everything's going to be
alright, ok? Just lay there and get well. Please, Tommy, do it for
me!"
The last came out as a tearful plea, as if Tommy wouldn't get well for
himself, but would gladly give his all to do it for another.
"Please, Tommy! I can't do all this without you. How can I do it,
Tommy?"
He was unaware that he had laid his head down on Tommy's chest as he
spoke, his tears soaking into the thin hospital blanket creating a
darker splash of colour. All he could feel was Tommy's weak heartbeat
throbbing slowly, the laboured rise and grateful fall of his lungs
under him. All he could see were the memories thrown up onto the reef
of his eyes of the two of them together, all he could do was cry, let
out those tears that had never been shed for anyone else.
Somehow he knew that those others were here now, in this room. Was
that a whiff of the lavender perfume that his mother had used? Pipe
smoke? Here in a hospital? Motor oil smeared on the wall? A laughing
baby and a contented mother? All in this one room?
As he wept for Tommy he wept for his unmourned family. As he shed
those final tears they were there, comforting him and comforting Tommy
in that hospital room.
"How can he die? How can he leave me like this? How?"
A whispering reply stirred the curtains and entered his mind. He will
never leave you. We have never left you. But he only stays for you. He
needs to go. Let him go, John. Let Tommy go.
John sat up in his chair, still clasping the hand of Tommy. He quickly
looked at his face. A small smile turned up the edges of that once-full
mouth, crinkled into his wan cheeks. That was all that mattered now,
Tommy was happy. Tommy was where he wanted to be, needed to be.
He didn't mind being shoved aside as the orderlies crammed into the
room as the monitor let out one long continuous bleep.
He didn't see Tommy's limp body arch upwards at every attempt to
restart his weakened heart.
He knew, as he leant against the window, that Tommy would never wake
again. He knew that he would never see Tommy again as long as he
remained alive. Nothing that these medical personnel could do would
bring Tommy back. And it was all right. Everything was all right.
Finally, Tommy wouldn't be bothered by illness, no viral infection to
be fought off, no antibodies to be counted and boosted.
John walked slowly into the waiting room to await the arrival of some
kind of official. He knew that they would track him down if he left to
go home, so he stayed.
He received a great number of strange looks from the staff as they
rushed around and from the other patients.
Why would such a smiling man, appearing to be totally at peace with
everything in the world, why would he be sat calmly in the waiting room
of a casualty department?