On Call

 

On Call

I am in bed, midnight, when the doctor calls.
She says my brother is in the Highland Hospital
Emergency Room with high blood sugar,
dehydration, another stroke.
    She wants guidelines.

Dementia.
He cannot feed himself or even smile.
Yet he lights up whenever I arrive —
    you can sense it in his eyes.

As a child I chased after him on a tricycle.
He taught me baseball, rebellion, girls.
Taught me to drive our old Studebaker.
    Now he leads on this new path.

My breath is barely willing to convey the words:
“No heroic measures. Do not resuscitate."
“Okay,” the doctor says, "what about
    a feeding tube?"

When the heart stops, it is as if
the body has decided to die—right now.
But if the body cannot swallow?  
Confused, inarticulate, he slowly starves.
    Who decided that?

To the black bedroom a soft light comes,
headlights passing. Rain is dripping.
Dogs are sleeping on the floor,
one with a gentle snore.
My wife, head propped on hand,
lies on her side, watching. In this quiet night
with the doctor’s breath in my ear
I am an incompetent god,
    but the only one on call.

……

From my book Random Saints
First published in Verse-Virtual—Firestone Feinberg, editor
Watercolor by Ray Hendershot