I’m a Situation

Day 13, September 22

Boca Raton, Florida

Exactly twenty-three minutes after he died, Francis Jaynes sat up slowly in his bed. He swiveled his neck from side to side and, by the soft moonlight filtering through the window of his room at the Welcoming Arms Nursing Home, could discern the familiar silhouettes of each piece of furniture. Everything appeared precisely as it always did. Gripping the side-rail for stability, he lowered his feet to the ground and pulled himself into an upright position. He switched on the battery-powered lamp beside his bed and squinted as he slid his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. He looked around for a moment, confused. Nothing was changed. He wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work, but certainly not like this. Still clutching the bed rail, he ran one hand over his face, down his chest and across his abdomen. All solid, all intact. None of this made sense. 

He knew the moment he had died; he’d felt that space in him – that space that contained breath and life – get squeezed shut, tighter and tighter, until it was compressed out of existence. It was gone, and he was dead. This development was not unwelcome, particularly after the days of headaches, mood swings and – worst of all – the sense of utter, complete emotional isolation he had endured. No, when death came to him, it came as a friend, caressing his body lovingly and promising peace. Once it enveloped him, Francis lay on the bed with eyes shut waiting for the next phase, the crossover, the Light. But he didn’t see any light, at least not until his eyelids opened and he detected illumination from the full moon and the generator-powered hall back-up lighting stealing through the door. 

Certain that something had to be different, he searched his space for telltale signs. His wedding ring still sat on his bedside table, just as it had for his four-year tenure at the Home, the smooth golden band no longer a match for the large nodes on his fourth finger. His eyes glided over a collection of framed photos: he and his wife clinking glasses in celebration on their first night in the home they’d purchased after Francis retired, and they’d moved to Florida; his eldest daughter, smiling with her husband and two sons; his youngest daughter upon her graduation from medical school, just weeks before the wedding that kicked off an ill-fated marriage. His eyes lingered for a moment on a photo of his granddaughter, Alice, ­around age ten in the photo­, with a dark ponytail and wide smile. That marriage had at least produced something good and lasting. She’d last been to see him with her mother – what, around Memorial Day? – no longer a little girl, but a full-grown woman, intent on being a doctor just like her mom. Yeah, that had been nice.Francis shook his head. No matter, he’d never be seeing any of them again. At least, not on this earth.

He reached for his walker and shuffled toward the door, his right leg dragging, a constant reminder of the stroke he’d suffered just before moving to Welcoming Arms. The hallway was uncharacteristically empty. He lumbered steadily to the first-floor nurse’s station, all the while trying to reconcile his body’s continued need for a walker – and eyeglasses, for that matter – with the fact that his body should have no needs at all now. His body should no longer be. At the desk he found Shirlene, a large and capable nurse with a proven aptitude for making Francis smile. At least, back in the days when Francis still smiled. She was leaning over the desk, intently reviewing papers and making notations with a pencil. The thump-creak-drag sound of Francis approaching with his walker seemed to provoke no reaction from Shirlene, and she made no sign that she heard Francis coming. Francis considered whether he might indeed be a spirit, his corporal form undetectable to the living, but that line of thinking terminated abruptly when Shirlene, without looking up, asked in her characteristic thick Jamaican accent, “Who that sneaking in the hall?”

Startled, Francis didn’t immediately respond, prompting Shirlene to raise her head and look directly at him. “Mr. J, what you doing out of bed?”

“You can see me?”

“Course I can see you! I got my glasses on just like you got your glasses on.” She paused and frowned, taking a good look at the old man. “Whatsa matter, Mr. J? Can’t sleep?”

“I –,” he stammered, coughed, cleared his throat. 

Shirlene watched him patiently. “What is it?”

“I thought …”

“Thought what?”

“I thought I … um, I feel like I … no, I know I … died.”

Shirlene just looked at him, eyebrows raised expectantly, as though waiting for a punchline.

“I’m dead.”

Shirlene dropped her pencil on the desk, removed her glasses, and methodically rubbed her eyes with both hands. “Oh Lord,” she said, face turned away from Francis. “Now if this don’t top everything …” She put her hands down and fixed weary eyes on Francis. “What in God’s name you talking ‘bout, Mr. J?” Her voice was tired, but gentle and kind.

Francis didn’t know how to respond. What was he talking about?

“Listen,” she said, leaning conspiratorially toward Francis. “You’re not dead until I tell you you’re dead.” She offered a small, tender smile and a wink. “And you’re not dead.”

Francis stood stock still, unsure of himself. Suddenly, he felt very lost and confused. His face began to crumble, and he knew he was about to cry.

Shirlene must have sensed it, too. “Why don’t you come here and sit for a while? I’ll have Big Tony get you a snack,” she said, pointing her chin at an approaching orderly, “and you can keep me company here.” She pulled out a chair beside her and patted the seat. Feeling powerless, Francis shuffled over and, with Shirlene’s help, lowered himself stiffly into the chair. “Good,” Shirlene smiled. “Tony, go get Mr. J here a Jello cup.” Big Tony nodded and began to walk off. “Make sure it’s sugar-free,” Shirlene added. Then turning back to Francis, “I don’t want that daughter of yours coming in to yell at ol’ Shirlene for letting your sugars get outta whack.”

“I don’t want a snack,” Francis said, finding his voice again. “Not hungry.”

Shirlene waved him off. “You gotta eat sometime, you fadin’ away to nuthin’.” She looked at him thoughtfully and continued speaking. “Where’s that daughter of yours, anyway? The doctor one? When she was here in the summer, she said something ‘bout going out to take care of people in the South Pacific. That where she’s at?”

Francis looked at her blankly.

“No, I don’t s’pose you’d have any way of knowing now …” Her voice trailed off as Big Tony retuned with a red Jello cup and a spoon. Shirlene peeled back the foil lid and placed it before Francis. “Ah, see, that’s nice. Here you go.” She offered him the spoon, and he reached for it absently. 

“Eat,” Shirlene commanded. “A little snack’ll do ya some good. And then back to bed.”  She tilted her head thoughtfully, distracted. Then, she continued, “You know, if your daughter is in the Pacific, she may be okay. I heard those islands there weren’t affected by the flare. Imagine that?”

Francis sat quietly beside her, spoon in trembling hand, Jello untouched. The truth was that he couldn’t imagine much of anything at the moment, and casual conversation was beyond him. 

Presently, a commotion started somewhere down the hall, heralded by the stairwell door bursting open and a hushed frenzy of excited voices. Big Tony hurried toward them, his face grim. He stopped before Shirlene, cast an uncertain glance at Francis, then blurted out, “We have a situation.”

Francis knew that in nursing home lingo, “situation” was code for death.

“Who?” Shirlene asked, rising to her feet.

“Mr. Whitaker, room 208.”

Shirlene covered her mouth with one hand and nodded. “Oh Lord! What a night! Okay, we have to –”

“I’m a situation,” Francis said softly.

Shirlene shook her head at him in the same way a mother might signal an interrupting child, and kept her attention on Big Tony. She began running through an immediate plan. “Let’s make sure all the residents are in their rooms and close all the doors. We’ll have to carry Mr. Whitaker –”

“I’m a situation!” Francis shouted with all the tremulous strength his voice could muster.

“No, Mr. Jaynes, you’re not a situation,” Shirlene said, placing her hands flat on the table and turning her full attention toward him, “but you’re gonna be a situation if you give me any more nonsense here.” At another time, in other circumstances, Francis would have understood that her threat was not meant to be taken seriously, that the frazzled nurse was offering nothing but firm affection disguised in bravado, but tonight it just made him feel inexplicably small. 

Shirlene gestured to Big Tony. “Help Mr. Jaynes back to his bed.” She pointed a straight finger at Francis, warning him against any protests. “You go. Now.”

Big Tony was suddenly beside him with a wheelchair. “Have a seat, Mr. J. I’ll give you a ride back, nice and easy.”

“My walker …”

“I got it.”

Helplessly, Francis took a seat, and he was quickly and efficiently disposed of back in his room. Tony helped the old man to his bed, then hit the switch on the small back-up lamp before he hurried back out. “Get some rest.”

Alone in bed, Francis stared up at the ceiling. “I’m a situation,” he croaked into the dark room. He felt nothing, and was baffled by the stream of tears that began steadily flowing from the corners of his eyes, down his temples and into his pillow. After a while, he closed his eyes and focused on the darkness behind his lids, desperately searching for the Light.