Annabelle sashayed out of the bathroom wearing her Red Cross nurse’s cap. She carried a bottle of aspirin and Thatch followed her wearing a stethoscope and carrying a small plate holding a struggling cockroach.
Mr. Moore! she sang out. Nurse Nellie Forbush here to care for you!
Annabelle, I’ve told you I am not sick.
If you’re having surgery, you must be sick. Dr. Thatch, give the patient his roach.
Thatch handed me the plate he was carrying.
I don’t want a roach, Annabelle. I know you think they’re delicious, but-
Eat the roach! It’s good for you.
I took the plate. Stella! You want this? I asked.
Stella, who had been lying beside me on the bed jumped up and devoured the roach. Then she sat back, licked her chops, and seemed quite pleased with herself. Nurse Nellie was apoplectic.
Stella! she hissed. That was for the patient. Turning to me, she asked, Want an aspirin?
Thatch in the meantime had climbed onto my chest and was trying to listen to my innards through the stethoscope.
You know, I said, I’m really sorry that I ever brought up the surgery.
What did you learn from your last test? she asked me. You saw the doctor today.
I learned more about this lesion on my kidney and what the surgery will be like.
Just promise me, she said seriously, that you are not dying.
I can’t promise that, I just want to live long enough to see you all thrive and be happy. You know, we all die eventually.
Not me, Annabelle said. I’m not going to die. I’m a household name. I’ll live forever.
I think you should read “Tuck Everlasting,” Annabelle.
Does it scare you, Daddy? Thatch asked.
What, Thatch?
Dying. It scares me.
I don’t know Thatch. I know the process of dying scares me because I don’t want to linger or suffer over a period of time.
I had watched my mother’s slow death in 1994 and prayed to God no one I loved would ever have to go through a week of dementia, fading in and out of reality, as her body closed down bit by slow bit. The really bad day was the one in which I walked into her hospital room to find her stark naked and trying to remove her catheter. She was one month short of her seventy-first birthday.
My dad’s death in 2007 was much easier. His doctor informed him on a Thursday, February 8, that the cancer was so rampant he most likely had three days to three months left. He said to my sister-in-law Jo, It’s been a good life, lingered until I flew in on Sunday to say goodbye, went into a coma, and died just past midnight on Feb. 15, three days later, in his own bed.
How do you want to die?
I don’t want to die, Thatch, but I’d like to die in bed. I think the best method would be walking down the street and a piano falls on me. I’d be like a fly to a fly swatter: lights out, and you would never know what hit you.
You never make sense, Annabelle snorted. What’s a piano doing in the air?
Never mind, I said. Let me get up. I am not an invalid yet.
Seriously, a piano’s going to fall on you? From the sky? That’s the silliest thing I’ve heard in some time.
And humming “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair,” Nurse Nellie turned and sashayed back to the bathroom, followed by Dr. Thatch stumbling over the stethoscope. Stella leaped over me and ran to follow them.
I went to the market. A day passed with my fending off Annabelle’s attempts to nurse me. She and Dr. Thatch jumped into action each time I lay down. My words of protest fell on deaf ears. Genug ist Genug, Annabelle!
Daddy! I heard Thatch calling me from the bathroom.
Thatch?
Daddy! Help!
I limped into the bathroom. Little Thatch sat in the middle of the litter box looking most distressed. Annabelle lay on the bathroom floor beside it. Every time he tried to squat to perform whatever function he intended, Annabelle extended a paw and poked him.
Annabelle, what are you doing? I asked her.
Teasing him.
She’s bothering me, Daddy! I can’t pee!
All right, Annabelle, out! Go!
Annabelle lazily rose, retrieved her nurse’s cap and left the bathroom. I followed her.
What are you doing out of bed? she asked.
I’m not sick, and I’m not at death’s door, Annabelle. You can stop being Nellie Forbush and go back to being my little girl. Or musical theatre star.
This surgery, whatever it is, means you’re sick.
No, it means I’m sick of your hovering over me. I have a health issue, but I want you to stop brooding about it.
We want to take care of you. We don’t want to lose you.
You won’t. OK? When the doctors tell me how little time I have left, I will let you know, and see that you, Thatch, and Stella are safe.
I don’t want to hear this!
That’s fine. If you want to play nurse, take care of Thatch.
I looked around for Thatch. He and Stella were playing between the front window and my bed, They wrestled for a bit, then chased each other around and under the bed,
He has a bad heart, I said very quietly.
It’s a good heart. He’s a wonderful brother.
And personal servant, I thought. Instead, I said, One day that little boy’s going to look at you funny and fall over dead. I hope that’s a long way off.
No! I don’t want to know this!
He’s a sweet little boy, but his bad heart will kill him one day. Be good to him, and be his nurse, not mine. OK?
He’s really sick?
No, but he has a heart that is. And please, please, Annabelle, don’t ever say a word to him about this.
Why?
I don’t want him to know. He takes his medicine daily, and that’s all he needs to know. Okay?
She gave me a long look. What about you?
I’ve got plenty of people looking out for me, Missy. Thatch only has you and me in his corner. Maybe Stella. And don’t you dare say anything to Stella about this.
I promise.
All right, what do you want to do now . . . after you get out of your nurse uniform.
Listen to Cats!
As soon as Thatch and Stella heard this, they stopped playing with the window blinds and burst into “Memory.” Annabelle ran to the window and joined them. Then the pigeons on the fire escape joined in.
I never thought I would look forward to this surgery.
©2020, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 