Living in Limbo(Dave Maze) I went to see him perform in the Baycrest Choir three weeks ago. I could feel his joy through the tranquility in his voice. I’m not saying it was angelic because an eighty-five-year-old man with a beating heart is no angel. At least not yet. This eighty-five-year-old man is my grandfather, Melvin. I call him Zeedee.

I am visiting him today, but the high I felt on that night has dissipated. I’m feeling low, walking alone through the Humber River Hospital. A darkness consumes the halls; it’s an eclipse that follows me like a shadow as I reach the elevator.

Zeedee’s had cancer in the form of a sarcoma for five years. He’d gotten it to take an intermission, but unfortunately, not a remission. I sometimes imagine him reasoning with the tumour.

“Give me eight years,” Zeedee starts.

“Eight years? What are you crazy? I’ll give you four.”

“I’ll do five with a conditional bonus year for good behaviour.”

“You run a tough bargain, Mel. I’ll take it. But,” and this is where I envision the tumour holding up one of its rotten cells like a finger, “you gotta ease up on that radiation, man. It’s killing me!”

Zeedee rolls his eyes. “Look who’s talking.”

I’m standing in front of room 716. Zeedee was in excruciating pain when he came to the hospital last weekend, but he got out a few days later. Mom hadn’t said anything at the time, but she told my sister and me once he was re-admitted yesterday.

I dig the nail of my index finger into my thumb and swallow. I don’t know what to expect as I open the heavy wooden door. My eyes start to digest the surroundings. A TV is mounted on the wall closest to my right. CP24 is on at a high volume. The walls are a muted beige with towering white ceilings.

There are more machines than I can count. Each beeps to their own rhythm. Speaking of rhythm, I see the heart-rate monitor. Zeedee’s heart is at a rested 62 bpm. I follow the wire to the pulse oximeter encased around his finger. The outside of his hand is bruised, stained a stormy purple and black. The intravenous is disconnected.

Zeedee is wrapped in a light blue gown. A blanket lays rumpled by his feet. He’s in and out of sleep and hasn’t seen me. I can’t believe how frail he’s become. Bubbie looked the same before she... No, Mike! You’re here to be strong. You’re here for him.
 
Suddenly, Zeedee lets out a piercing scream. His eyes shoot open. They land on me, then dart around the room.

My heart jumps into my throat. I look at each machine as if I know what Zeedee needs, but I don’t. I don’t, and it kills me. “Do you need me to call for help?” I put my hand on his, careful not to press on the bruise.

“Mike?” He winces through half-squinted eyes. “Ow!” Then grabs his stomach. “Yowzers! Wow.” He drops his arm to the side and sighs.

It’s me, Zeedee. Do you need help?”

“I need a lot of help, but not this second.” He shrugs his bony shoulders and places his free hand on mine. “Thanks for coming, guy.”

I can feel tears beneath my eyelids but close them before they leak out.

“Don’t thank me, sir. I’m happy to be here.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.” I walk to the big window at the end of the room. “Look at this view.” I open my arms to a panoramic of downtown Toronto. The 401 is below. It’s rush hour and the lights of the cars look like an endless snake slithering through the night. I turn back to his bed. “Remember what we said at the end of the choir performance?”

“You’ll have to remind me.”

“I said, ‘I’ll see you soon.’” I can tell he’s trying to find the memory. “You said, ‘Hopefully.’” I look him in the eyes. “I put my hands on your shoulders and told you, ‘No. I’ll see you soon.’”

“And you were right.” He smiles.

“What are the doctors saying?”

He closes his eyes. His wrinkles scrunch in unison with his pain.

“Sorry, did you say something?”

“The doctors. What have they said?”

He tries to sit up but can’t get his back off the mattress. “The ol’ battery is dying.” He looks at me, and I see a man who’s torn between pride and reality. “Help your Zeedee out.”

“It’s not dying.” I shove away the haunting image of Bubbie’s final days. “Just on charge.”

I ask where I should lift from and get him into a “comfortable” position.

“They don’t know what’s happening. Not sure what’s causing the pain.”

My stare is deep, holding onto every word.

“They say it’s the cancer. I know, shocking.” He shakes his head. “But they’re trying to figure out how to control the discomfort. I’m on a ton of drugs.”

“And pretty lucid.” I force a grin, but it’s a frown that resides deep inside me. A frown that I know I must hide until I’m alone.

“They’re going to give the next dose soon.”

Zeedee and I talk until he falls asleep. I kiss his forehead, whispering, “I love you.”

I turn around as I get to the door. This isn’t it. The effort to stave off, Yes, it is, from eating at my mind is torturous.

I head to my car and slam the door, losing control of those tears I held in so tightly. Yes, it is takes over and spills a fountain of grief and fear. I take deep breaths. The bawling turns into choppy cries until I’m able to take a breath without a teardrop. I turn on the car and head home.

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Zeedee’s doing better the last couple of days. He’s where I left him last. His pain has calmed for the most part but still sends sporadic jolts through his system just to let him know it’s still there. It’s a small victory, but sometimes those are the ones we need to hold onto the most. Tonight was to be his next choir performance.

I walk through that same eclipse in the hospital’s hallways. I’m wearing my guitar case like a backpack and feel people’s stares.

I walk into Zeedee’s room. He’s sitting up, watching Family Feud.

“Look who it is.” He smiles, calming my angst. “And you brought your gey-tar. Are you going to serenade me?”

I put down the case and pull a chair to his bedside. I run my hand through my dark, unkempt hair.

“Something like that… More importantly, how are you?”

He’s got a touch more colour in his cheeks tonight, but his eyes are tired, and his face is gaunt. He scratches his head, ruffling the remaining white hairs.

“I’m alright, guy. You just missed your aunt.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Alright is better than not good, Zeeds. Anything is better than how you felt a few days ago.”

“You know something? I thought I knew what pain was, but man, did I ever meet the real pain.”

I nod, unsure of what to say. I think I just need to listen. I’m good at that. Zeedee reaches for my hand. The bruise has settled. It’s still there, but not as angry. Our eyes lock.

“I guess this is just life, eh?” he closes his eyes for a moment.

I realize that Zeedee’s found peace by looking through his pain. He glances past my shoulder, to the window that holds life behind its pane. “I’m not really sure I’ll get to leave this place. I can barely eat, and I can’t taste anything when I do. That damn radiation zapped my taste buds.”

“Maybe you need to eat the right thing? I bet a smoked meat sandwich would do the trick.”

“Too bad I don’t live in Montreal anymore.” He laughs through a suppressed cough. “Yowzers.” He clutches his stomach then composes himself. “Actually, moving to Toronto was the best thing Bubbie and I did. We had a lot of good years here. Good times with the family.”

“Let the good times roll on.” I pat his shoulder. “Cause your time ain’t up, my friend.”

“It’s okay, guy. I know where I am. I know what’s next.”

“You don’t know. You’re leaning on the odds, but the odds don’t always dictate the outcome.”

“This is true.” He yawns. “But if it’s my time, I can go knowing I lived a great life.”

I see through his eyes and they aren’t staring back at me. He’s looking death in its finite pupils. I try and imagine what he is going through. This stare-down with the only certainty in life. He’s living in limbo, but he’s not scared. I no longer feel his pain. He’s not suffering like he was, and my pain becomes peace.

“Listen.” I move to get my guitar. “It was supposed to be at your choir performance tonight.” I unzip the case and rest the groove of the body on my knee. “Seeing as you couldn’t go to the choir, I figured I’d bring the choir to you.” I pull out a stack of sheets. “These are the songs you were going to sing.”

A tear streams down his cheek. He flips through the papers. “Amazing. I’ll try my best, but I won’t be no Sinatra.”

“That’s okay. He was never that good anyway.” I wink and start strumming. I’m not sure how loud I should play and settle on a muted tone.

“What’s first?” he asks.

“‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’”

He finds it in the stack. I know the tune, but it’s one I’ve never attempted to play. I can hear the imperfections of my chops but could care less. Nothing else has to be perfect because perfection is this, the moment.

He struggles to find the key and push through the song without that crooning voice he’d had at the last performance. And you know what? It’s the most beautiful rendition I’ve heard.

We play a few other classics until we reach the last one, “Autumn Leaves” by Jacques Prevert. The original was in French until Johnny Mercer translated it to English in 1947.

Zeedee is choked up as he sings. The lyrics in the song are beautiful and it’s only as I really listen that I know why he cries.

But I miss you most of all my darling.
When autumn leaves start to fall.

Tears follow the leaves as the final note fades. Zeedee looks at me with eyes filled not with pain but relief.

“I was going to perform that tonight…for Bubbie.”

“You just did.” I put the guitar down and wrap my arms around his shoulders. His back is bare behind the gown. He’s warm to the touch; it’s a comforting kind of heat. I shut my eyes.

“Every time I sing it,” Zeedee says and we disentangle ourselves, “it’s like she’s in the room.”

“She’s everywhere you are, Zeeds. Most importantly, she’s here.” I point to his heart. “And here.” Then his fragile head. “That will never change. Nobody can take away your love.”

I lock my phone and put it in my pants’ pocket. Zeedee doesn’t know that I recorded our session. He doesn’t have to.

I won’t listen until it’s the right time. Until my ears can no longer hear his calming voice in person. It’s an odd feeling. I’m not excited nor sad to have a listen. It’s his goodbye present that he’ll never know he gave: the best gift I could ask for.

“I gotta head home now, Zeedee. You need anything before I go?”

“You did more than enough. Thank you.”

“I love you.” I put my hands on his shoulders. Eyes fixated on his. “And I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon, guy.” He smiles. His voice calls to me as I’m rounding out the door. “And Mike…”

I turn around.

“I love you too.”

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