By Simone Kadden
On a good day, living in Effingham feels like dying. The desolate, frozen winters and stifling summers rob much of the population of the desire to rise each morning. Hence, the written form: F-ingham.
As bad luck would have it, a scholarship landed us in the town’s grip. Howe immersed himself in his internship at the university. I was twenty-two, tethered to an ill-fated marriage, and living in a wasteland. I listed distractions that might keep me from doing something rash:
-Try LSD
-Be a nude model
-Deal weed
-Train as a private eye
-Mastermind a museum heist
-Go to acting school
-Work as a call girl
The list was long and meandering, but I kept returning to number 8: See my first dead person.
In the local paper, the hospital advertised for inhalation therapy trainees. The interviewer questioned me about hours and salary, education, job experience, and death and dying. My concocted story about a cousin, a stolen van, and a family pet sealed the deal. The following Monday, I began training.
The five of us hired at the same time were a motley crew with warped and varied senses of reality. None of us came from Effingham, which was a plus. No one knew what inhalation therapy was, and we all had bills to pay. I liked the odd hours and the lab coat that hid my meager wardrobe. All in all, it was a good fit.
Chemistry, science, and psychology classes filled the two-month training. For hours, we stared at the blackboard, where Clyde, the program head, made good use of his chalk collection. He sketched rosy pink lungs, added diseased portions in shades of ash and shale gray, and resorted to lime green to illustrate the aerosols traveling into the shrunken airways. He quizzed us on chemical elements and symbols, we enacted end-of-life scenarios, and hacked through do’s and don’ts. Finally, Clyde decided we were ready and assigned us to the wards.Our patients were the unfortunates, afflicted with emphysema, asthma, and lung cancer. Their rattled breathing was so loud it was audible from the hallway.
I set out to do right by my patients, assure them they were well cared for, address their pains and concerns, and comfort them as they gasped, coughed, and confronted the inevitable. Most of them faded away but losing them was my gain. I became compassionate, patient, a better listener, and a comfort to grieving families.
One of my patients was Jack Reiper, a sixty-eight-year-old widower from Jenkinjones, a coal-mining town in West Virginia. He could never have told me this; he could barely breathe. My co-workers referred to him as Jack the Ripper. I let it slide. Warped humor serves a purpose in bleak situations.
The Ripper wasn’t nasty or rude; he was nervous and agitated. I knew his situation was rapidly deteriorating and couldn’t shake the image of him panicking, gasping for breaths he couldn’t catch. For whatever reason, he refused sedatives and morphine. Maybe he wanted to feel what remained.
One slow, humid Saturday, Jack grabbed my wrist as I passed his bedside. He showed me a note he’d scribbled on a yellow pad: “Smoking since 9 yrz. No stop now.” He placed his index finger parallel to his middle one and held them in front of his mouth. Jack wanted a smoke. He extended his open palm for the order.
I didn’t discuss my dilemma with anyone. I wanted to be clear about the decision I had to make.
The next day I showed up with two cigarettes and a matchbook in my lab coat pocket. When I entered his room, The Ripper searched my face and knew. He pointed to the wall knob and twisted his wrist as a reminder to turn off the oxygen. I moved Jack to a seated position on the edge of his bed, slid slippers on his swollen, purple feet, and wrapped a second gown like a robe around his shoulders. I guided him and his IV apparatus to the bathroom a few feet away.
“Wait here. I’ll be back in ten,” I said, as I passed Jack the contraband and closed the bathroom door behind him.
I stayed in the room, worried Jack might have a loud coughing fit, fall, or worse, but The Ripper was skilled at sneaking smokes.
When I returned to work after a two-day break, I stopped at the lab to pick up aerosols for the day’s patients. While talking to the lab tech, I focused on a large mason jar sitting on the steel counter. Two black sponges floated within the glass. Written on masking tape around its middle were the words: “Jack Ripper.” The lab tech read my mind and confirmed they were lung sections awaiting dissection.
Jack was a decent man on the receiving end of a crappy deal. In his anguish, he taught me about being true to myself, honoring flaws, and accepting responsibility. I hope he knew he did that.
I never asked what day and time he died. I didn’t want to know if that last smoke killed him. But before leaving the lab, I corrected the spelling on the mason jar. Later, I checked off number 8 on my list. I’d gotten close enough.