Hospice (Perspective and a Single Scene)

Aimee’s earlier blog post recreates Faulkner’s narrative style and how he uses it in characterization, particularly with younger characters. I wanted to focus more on perspective and grief around a single scene. The theme of grieving and how each character addresses it is a major aspect of the novel. Each character has their own way to address the situation with very distinct personalities and reactions. At times, we jump from perspective to perspective as a singular event happens. For example, we see the perspective of Darl as they cross the river, but then we jump to Vardaman and Tull as they watch the same event except they are on the opposite shore. It’s not just linear progression, we’re seeing the same thing through someone. I wanted to try to imitate writing from multiple perspectives all surrounding a singular event. Since this is a blog post, I didn’t want to make it too long, so I thought I’d just focus on two characters and make the scene itself relatively short.

Thomas

Grandpa never looked smaller. He was sleeping in bed with tubes in his nose and arms with a monitor with flashing red and green lights. I thought it might be measuring his heart beat, but there was no constant beating or jagged green line flashing and dashing across the screen. Mom and Dad told me that he would be weak and tired, so I shouldn’t expect him to be his old self.

“Grandpa?” called Jim. He was ten years old. Four years younger than me. Mom and Dad told me to be strong for him. He probably wouldn’t know what was happening.

Grandpa stirred from his sleep and he smiled as soon as he could see us. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t say anything. I walked to the side of his bed to hug him. Mom, Dad, and Grandma whispered in the corner while Jim waited behind me. I held his hand, but it wasn’t how I remembered it. It was cold and limp. I let Jim have his turn. We stood by his bed as our parents came over to hug and hold onto him.

We hugged Grandma. She held onto us.

“How was y’all’s days?” she asked, but a foul smell started to fill the air. I thought Jim passed gas. He might have thought it would be funny or maybe he thought no one would smell it, but it just became worse and worse. Grandma looked towards the bed and walked past us. She pressed a button on the side of the bed.

Mom came over to me and Jim and led us out of the room. A couple of nurses waited outside the door for us to leave. The filed into the room and shut the door behind them. Mom guided us down the hall and into the break room. “Do you guys want something to drink? I think they also have some animal crackers if you want those.”

Jim grabbed one of those small plastic bottles of coke from a fridge and a box of animal crackers from a stack on the counter.

It felt like an hour before Dad came out. They spoke again in whispers. When they finished, Dad went back to Grandpa’s room.

“Guys, come here.” Mom said. “Grandpa really isn’t doing too well. He went to the bathroom in the bed.”

“Why?” Jim asked.

“He can’t really control it.”

I thought about how many times Grandpa had been hospitalized before. I thought about how many surgeries and lung pumps that placed him in a bed and how they always said it was dangerous and wasn’t looking, but then he’d recover and come home and laugh and take his place in his favorite chair and live with us. Hospitals couldn’t kill him. He was too stubborn. “But he always gets better.” I said.

“Not this time.”

“That’s what they always say.”

“Thomas, this is a hospice home. They don’t move people who will get better in here.”

Jim asked, “What’s a hospice? Is it the same thing as a hospital?”

Jim didn’t get it, but I think I did.

Jim

I couldn’t see Grandpa past Thomas and Mom and Dad. I was sure he was there, but I called out just to be sure.

“Grandpa?” I called.

I heard someone stir in the bed, and Mom and Dad gently pushed us towards the bed. Thomas was first. He leaned in for a hug and stood awhile to hold his hand.

Thomas never said anything. He never really did. I think he likes being quiet.

I have to climb onto the bed to hug Grandpa. I can feel the plastic tubes press into as he wrapped his arms around me.

Thomas sometimes talked about how he didn’t always have them, the tubes and plastic wires that stuck out of him, but it must have been before I was born or I just don’t remember.

Mom and Dad came over, and Thomas and I were able to say hi to Grandma. She gave us bigger hugs than usual and asked, “How was y’all’s day?”

Before I could say anything, I thought I smelled a fart. I know it wasn’t me, so I thought it might have been Thomas, although he would probably never admit it. I thought it could have been Grandma, which would have been really funny, but the smell just got worse and worse. It didn’t seem like a fart anymore.

Grandma had become quiet. She was looking at the bed and walked past us. I saw her press a red button on the side of the bed. Mom came over and led me and Thomas out the door. A man and woman in light green clothes that looked like pajamas walked in as we left the room. Mom led us into a long hallway and into a room with chairs and a kitchen counter.

“Do you guys want something to drink? I think they also have some animal crackers if you want those.” she asked. I hadn’t eaten dinner, so I wanted some. Thomas didn’t. He just sat in a chair and waited. Even though he’s normally quiet, he isn’t usually this quiet. I thought it would be for the best to leave him alone. Mom kept an eye down the hall towards Grandpa’s room.

Even after I finished my snack, it took awhile for anyone to come into the room. Dad came and whispered a few words to Mom. He turned back down the hall, and Mom called us over, “Guys, come here.” He waited and said kind of quietly, “Grandpa really isn’t doing too well. He went to the bathroom in the bed.”

The first thing I thought was that it wasn’t a fart after all, but he was an adult. Adults don’t do that. “Why?” I asked.

“He can’t really control it.”

“But he always gets better.” said Thomas. He was right. Grandpa is always sick, but he’s always fine in the end.

“Not this time.”

“That’s what they always say.”

“Thomas, this is a hospice home. They don’t move people who will get better in here.”

Thomas didn’t say anything else.

I had never heard of a hospice before. “What’s a hospice? Is it the same thing as a hospital?” They had the same beds and doctors were all over, but the rooms and halls were a lot nicer. Was it just a nicer hospital?”

Mom just looked at me, and I couldn’t tell if she was about to cry or if it was the lights or something else that made her eyes seem full of water. I looked to Thomas, but he just stared off into space taking loud staggered breaths.