the dying and their embroidered names

whispers of a former nurse

In my family there were no deaths. Not until later in life, when we all reached adulthood. And these deaths felt justified. Not in the way they happened, but in their temporality.

I am pulling out a blue sweater because the mornings are still very spring. An embroidered name on the back of the cotton, touching my neck. I google Frank’s full name and his online obituary comes up. I look up his last address. A place in the periphery of the city. Big buildings housing old people. I have worked in some similar places before and I can imagine the last years he might have spent there. It makes me wonder which turns his life has taken. Which big unpleasant decisions he had to make, and the small joyful ones. The lemon tart with meringue or the mille-feuille? Some people think it's revolting to live in somebody else's clothes.

I don’t remember the first dying person. It must have been ten years ago, in the midst of my teenage years. That makes it feel like a distant memory that could have been somebody else's. I have seen a couple of dead people after that. Some of whom I had taken care of for days or weeks before. Often I thought about them after, until later when I didn’t.

No jewellery on the hands. Wedding bands as the exception. Small stud earrings. Short, non-polished nails. Gathered hair, tied up. Closed shoes.

When I first introduced P. to L., we sat around his red lacquered (non-) kitchen table. When they talked about the same youth in different cities, their cheeks filled with the colours of memories. They talked of going out, having fun, letting loose. They talked of long nights that became early mornings. Of new friends and old friends and lots of friends. I sat there and listened, looking into their sparkling eyes, and my heart grew nostalgic for a youth I never experienced.

Before the last washing, I would lay out their clothes for the last time. The patient is informed about every movement.Spoken softly and carefully, as if otherwise they might wake up. The first time, in front of door A6, she tells me not to be alarmed if, when turning him onto his side, a final breath escapes. After the washing, the window is opened for his soul to leave the room. I will go outside to look for a flower in the garden. I will place it on the chest of the deceased and say goodbye.
One last time.
The second-to-last time was the day before, at the end of my shift. That's when final wishes are whispered. I just highlighted those words and quickly deleted them. Some things don't need to be heard by the living.