Ventilator Blues

I lay here. Dying. Wishing to be dead. Electrical pulses run through the wiring and into the machine that forces little gusts of wind into my aching lungs. I wonder how much longer this purgatory will last. I hear them discussing it as if I am not in the room. As if I were already dead.

My daughter starts. She's always been the rule setter. The go-getter. The decision maker. "We have to decide what is in her best interest. Not ours," she says. Her breath catches and I wish my fake breath could catch on the plastic sides of the tube. It never does. It remains a perfect rhythm of in and out.

"You make it sound like she is a child incapable of making her own decisions." It's my son. Always the defender of mankind. The one to stick up for people. To respect their choices. A man of compassion and deep empathy. We've talked about my inevitable death.

"Alexander...." I can hear my sweet Eve getting ready to reason with him. She'll talk about life. How there is more than one path we must follow and how I am ready to go. She'll argue that I want quality, not quantity. We've had this conversation many, many times.

They will both be right. They just won't see that they are fighting for the same thing from opposite corners. Not for too long of a time. "Just pull the plug!" I want to scream. Release me from my confines. Let me float through the blues and prepare a place for you. Let me go!

*** Daily Writing Practice ***