Angel of mercy

ANGEL OF MERCY.

It's a strange thing to admit, but I've got a natural affinity with
death. It all started when I was twelve, as I watched my Mother die a
slow and lingering death. Her frail body, racked and tormented with
pain refused to leave the evil clutches of life. She begged me to ease
that pain, the tears flowing down her sunken emaciated face. My Mother
was a dignified lady that knew her time was up, that the modern
machinery that was keeping her alive was just there to prolong her
misery. It was then that I knew that my future lay within the medical
profession, of helping the sick and terminally ill.

So when the porter's job at the local hospital came up I jumped at the
chance. After all God had given me a task to perform, one of easing
despair and misery; where better to execute Gods great plan then his
own waiting rooms. I wait patiently as the lift slows, before finally
grinding to a halt; its bright illuminated digits displaying the
desired floor. With a sharp ping the metal doors slide open and I
emerge into the bright reception area. I listen in annoyance to the
squeaking wheels of the empty wheelchair I'm pushing, as they clank
along the highly polished floor.

Stopping for a moment I briefly scan the packed room beyond.
Momentarily I shut my eyes, my nose taking in the aroma of death and
despair that lingers heavily in the air. An exhibition of hell is laid
out before me, a panoramic battlefield of anguish.

Saturday nights are always busy, Casualty's always the first stop after
you've had ten pints and decided to reenact Brave heart on the city
streets. Tonight's no exception, as I view the wide collection of
humanity that is spread out before me.

Drunks litter the gangways, sprouting blood in between swigs of beer.
Children scream in frustration and pain, their parents contorted faces
anxious with worry. The few elderly people wait patiently, putting a
brave face on their woes, confident that the great British health
service won't let them down.

And during all this time I stand and stare, my mind focusing upon Gods
work I have to perform before leaving tonight's long shift.

I'm snapped from my reverie by Sister Janet, her colossal bulk bearing
down on me.

'Where have you been Bernie? I've been waiting for twenty minutes for
you to take Mrs. Jackson up to X-ray.'

'I got lost,' It was the only answer I can think of. My mind has gone
blank as I imagine Janet as a corpse, her chunky torso slowly
decomposing upon the operating table.

It was a pleasant thought.

'Well can you take her now, please, or would you like me to draw a
map?' she snarls', her voice thick with sarcasm. Turning, she points'
to an open cubicle where I spot an elderly lady seated and patiently
awaiting my return.

Angrily, I collect my passenger my eyes ablaze with fury. How dare she
talk to Gods right-hand man like that. I'm just about to enter the
vacant lift when she calls me again. 'Oh, Bernie could you deliver
these to the Nightingale ward on your way,' she asks, before passing a
sheaf of documents into my trembling hands.

In the lift I turn myself off to the old ladies babbling small talk.
All my interest is focused upon the paper's I process, my eyes
devouring the information with feverous greed. At last I have new
'Instruction's' from God, he has a task for me to perform.

The paper reveals some blood results. Even a simpleton like me can tell
that the patient in question, a one Lil Baker is a no-hoper with a
ticket waiting for heaven. She has Cancer of the Liver, she is a
perfect choice for my work.

In a cheerier mood now I take my patient to X-ray before embarking on
finding the Nightingale ward and Gods latest Instruction. It doesn't
take long before I'm standing before the vast swing doors of the ward
I'm looking for. Taking one last look at her room number I tentatively
push the door open, the door creaking in the morgue like
atmosphere.

Upon entering the gloomy ward I spot the ward Sisters desk to one side,
her bright lamp glowing in the darkness.

Stealthily I creep along the deserted passageway, my feet squeaking in
rhythm as I search in vain for my target. Glancing at my watch I note
the time, it reads just after two.

This is the perfect time to perform Gods work, just when the hospital
is at its lowest ebb. I've read somewhere that this is the time that
most people pass away, and that babies are born and delivered. I'm not
sure if that's true, but the hospital did portray a more serene
tranquility at this time of night. After the hustle and bustle of the
waiting room you can almost hear the rhythmic beat of death as it
threatens to envelop you within its eternal clutches.

I almost miss the room, as I pass the door in the darkened gloom. It's
the right room however, as I read the placard depicting the number
113.

Glancing fugitively along the empty corridor I decide it's safe before
entering the door in front of me. I can almost taste the hopeless
despondency in the air. The only sound that can be heard is of Lil's
rasping breath, and the intermittent beat of the machine that keeps
that breath alive.

Cautiously I approach her bed, the thick blankets concealing her
shriveled fragile frame. Sitting, I watch her withered features as she
sleeps. Her crinkled parched skin clings to her skull like
leather.

Suddenly she awakes, her eyelids slowly and painfully fluttering open.
The dull vacate orbs squint in the harsh light before gradually
focusing upon me.

'Who are you?' she gasps, her voice thick with pain.

'The Angel of Mercy, come to relive you of your suffering,' is my only
answer.

Suddenly instead of this stranger I see my Mother. A single drop of
water cascades down my cheek before hitting her scrawny neck. Once
again I am twelve years of age, with the power of life and death
hanging over me.

'Please son, make the pain go away,' my Mother cries. I can only watch
helplessly as waves of pain wash over her in a flood of torment.

'What can I do?' I ask 'Do you want some more pain killers?'

'No, I want this agony to stop for good. Son, what I really want is to
die,' she tells me. I can't take this request in, I just stand there,
my body quivering, my eyes glistening with huge puppy tears.

'But God can only decide when you are ready. I learnt that from Rev.
Brown at Sunday school. He decides when your times up, not us,' I blurt
out in between sobs.

Her pale blue eyes sparkle at this remark

'You're a good boy Bernie. But do you think that machine over there is
part of Gods will. For that is all that is keeping me from his warm
embrace.' I follow her eyes over to the machine, my mind confused as I
watch the steady pulse of life beating a spiky line.

'But you might get better. The Doctor's might find a cure for your
Cancer. Please don't give up Mother.' My last words come out amid the
stream of tears. 'I'll go and get the Doctor, he'll get some stronger
pills.' I make to leave but a skeletal hand reaches out grabbing
me

'No!' she screeches with the last vestiges of her energy. 'I'm too old
to fight. Please let me die with some dignity. It's my life, let me
have that choice.'

'What do you need me to do?' Is all I can ask.

'Turn the machine off. Let me be at peace with God and end my
suffering.'

'But I'll be murdering my own Mother. What I'm going to do is nothing
less than murder.' Even through I'm barely a teenager I can understand
the implications of my actions.

'But I'm already dead,' she explains 'The Cancer has eaten away my
body, there's nothing left but my soul. How can it be murder to let
someone's soul ascend to a higher plane?'

What my mother tells me makes sense so I decide to release her. Bending
down I kiss her parched lips, her breath smelling of putrefying
decay.

'I love you Mother,' I whisper into her ear.

'I love you to, Bernie,' she replies.

For a moment I'm torn between loyalty for my Mother and between the
right thing to do. Looking at the figure stretched out on the bed I
make my decision. This decaying husk is no longer the Mother I know, so
I pull the power on her empty existence.

I watch numbly as she draws her final breath, her throat discharging a
death rattle as her body convulses in the last throes of life.

I'm woken from my trance by the continuing high-pitched beep of Lil's
life support machine. I'm find myself holding a pillow over her limp
body. She's dead, her monitor registering a flat lifeless line. I look
upward and pray that God will receive Lil's soul. Taking one look
around the room I quickly take my leave before the medics arrive. I
hear their pounding feet as I slowly disappear, my figure coalescing
into the darkened shadows. I can still hear the shrill wailing of her
life-support as I don my overcoat. My feet echo loudly as I take the
stairs that lead to the exit and my life beyond my job. Somewhere
behind me I can hear frantic shouts, followed by the heavy beat of the
heart resuscitator. I don't need to listen to their futile efforts, I
know the result. They should be happy, after all now there's one more
empty bed to fill. Looking up I thank God for his Gift, and for being
able to spread that Gift, the gift of life and death.