Do Not Stand By My Grave, I Am Not There by Tony Del Degan

A nurse confronts the emotional and spiritual toll of his work in end of life care.

Tony Del Degan is an author and screenwriter from Calgary, Canada. When he was a young boy, he was introduced to the world of fiction through films like Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy, and was immediately captured by the desire to create imaginative worlds and stories of his own. Since elementary school, when he started creating books for the class library out of folded printer paper, his dream has never dimmed.
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/tonydeldegan/
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Photo by Raghavendra V. Konkathi on Unsplash

You can read "Do Not Stand By My Grave, I Am Not There" at https://www.kaidankaistories.com.

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:10):
Welcome to the kaidon Ki podcast, where every story takes
you one step deeper into the world of the strange,
the eerie, and the unknown. I'm your host, Linda Gould,
and tonight I'm reading Do Not Stand by My Grave
I Am Not There, a short story by Tony Deldagan.
It's a story where life and death converge within the

(00:32):
unsettling quiet of a hospital. As a nurse carries out
his duties, he's confronted with encounters that challenge his understanding
of what lies beyond and his role in the journey.
Tony Deldagan is an author and screenwriter from Calgary, Canada.
When he was a young boy, he was introduced to
the world of fiction through films like Peter Jackson's Lord

(00:55):
of the Rings trilogy, and he was immediately captured by
the desire to create imaginative worlds and stories of his own.
Since elementary school, when he started creating books with the
class library out of folded printer paper, his dream has
never dimmed. You can see his full bio, including his
social media in the episode description. Before we get into

(01:18):
the story, I feel compelled to give a warning. There
are graphic scenes of death and dying in this story,
including of a baby. So please be aware if you
are triggered by such things, and now dim the lights,
settle in and prepare yourself for do not stand by
my grave. I am not there by Tony Deldgan enjoy Daddy.

(01:51):
A cart was pushed across the linoleum. Daddy, We all
love you, okay, me and and mom, and you're going
to see her really soon. There was another woman beside
her pajamas under a black pea coat. Her hair was disheveled,

(02:12):
and her mascara had run and run again. A ball
of wet tissues spun amids her restless fingers. The nurse
with the cart approached the bedside, and his hand was
a needle. Hold on, please, he stopped, adjusted his latex gloves.
When you're ready, tell me no rush. The two women

(02:36):
looked back at the lying husk that was their dad,
the face half hidden behind the plastic mask. A tube
carried air. They could hear it in the quiet and
beeping car horns outside and sirens footsteps in the hall.
Fluorescence cast light through the doorway. One of the women,

(02:59):
Liza in the pajamas, reached out to touch the wrinkled forehead,
right above the ventilator mask. Daddy. Someone in the carter
walked past the door, shouting. The nurse left the man's bedside,
walked to the door and grabbed the metal knob. He
pushed gently, cutting off some of the light and a

(03:20):
lot of the noise. Dust flew into his eye. He
rubbed at it and blinked. The motion squeezed the plunger.
Some morphine ran down his glove. Oh shit, he said
under his breath. Thank you for being there for us
and my kids, your grandkids, they love you too. The

(03:44):
woman brushed hair off the man's forehead. They couldn't be here.
They were scared. I I didn't want them to see
you like this, but I want you to know that
they care. Mike too, He's watching them at home, but
he was crying lily. The woman in pajamas. Her stair

(04:05):
was empty. He knows, okay, why would he think? I'm
just saying, all right, it's important to me that it's clear.
Reebox sneakers squeaked. The nurse went back to his rolling tray.
He looked down at the needle's glass body. The metal
spear thinner than a hare in the half light. He

(04:27):
tapped the plunger, dew formed on the tip. You won't
be at any more pain, all right, daddy, She wept.
I know you're tired. You can sleep, okay, just go
to sleep, Go to sleep, Dad, I love you. She

(04:48):
dabbed her eyes with the wet mass of tissue. The
nurse sat down on a stool and rolled over. Are
you ready? The women nodded, but wouldn't look at him.
You're sure, silence. His latex fingers pulled the skin taut.

(05:08):
The needle broke through, slid into flesh. He depressed the
plunger with his thumb. He could almost feel the morphine
shooting out the buried tip, flowing into the vein, mixing
with the blood. All right, mister tennon. Time to rest.
Snap red plastic a faded label on off. The ventilator

(05:33):
went quiet, No more air in the tube. He reached
down to pull the mask off, kept his forearm hovering
above the patient's open mouth. Nothing. He must have gone
minutes ago. I can still feel some warmth. He touched
the arm to flesh. No breath. The women were quiet,

(05:57):
sobbing shadows. He looked at the old one, Lily, it's done.
Now he passed when we told him it was time,
she said, when I told him to sleep. Yes, I
think so, it's possible. The nurse set the empty needle down.

(06:18):
I'm sure he heard everything you said. He glanced at
the man's eyes, now empty. Nothing. Andy. The nurse stopped,
turned around doctor. The doctor's white coat was flapping. Leather
heels snapped against the floor. The doctor slowed and came

(06:41):
to a stop. He spoke through heavy breath, Room three
oh seven. Got another one for you, Andy, the nurse said, um,
my shift's over, can Melissa? No, your shift is not over.
And no, Melissa is busy. But it's six thirty. It's
six twenty islands A smack on his shoulder. Come on, Bud,

(07:03):
earn that paycheck. People are crying and people are dying.
Not gonna leave him like that. He fished a pen
out of his white coat. I've got an achilles in
twenty minutes. I'm gonna shit and grab a coffee so
I don't fall asleep. He left in a hurry, and
he turned forced open the swinging bathroom door. It reeked

(07:25):
of urinal cake and sewage. He went over to the
sink water dribbled out of the faucet. Calcium had grown
from the spout and in the ridges of the metal
drain cover. He turned the knob, the dribble stopped. One
of the janitors had decapitated the soap dispenser. Its clear
plastic head lay below on the ledge of the sink.

(07:46):
Congealed pink gunk was splattered down the wall. The nozzle
was encrusted with it. Humming from one of the stalls.
The nurse looked in the mirror, saw the closed door. Ah,
keep drinking malted milk, trying to drive my blues away.

(08:08):
Something in the voice made his chest sease. He turned
the knob. Water squeezed out into the porcelain. It swirled
around and around, and then filtered into the drain. Malted milk.
Malted milk keeps rushing to my head. He shut the
water off. You've got a nice voice, who's in there?

(08:31):
And I have a funny, funny feeling, and I'm talking
all out of my well. Thank you, son. I'm not
a singer, The nurse talked into the mirror to the
reflection of the stall, I'd say, you are mighty conned.

(08:52):
I'm just here to do my business. Is that leroy
in there? No, no, this ain't I'm not from here,
you see? Oh where then? Oh that's all right. What
are you doing in the shitter? Son? Tell me standing
at the sink like that. The nurse shifted his gaze.

(09:16):
He faced down his reflection. I uh, I guess I'm
just freshening up for what I've got to pull the
plug on someone. A sound from the stall reverberated on
the tiles. A groan. Oh that's your job here. I'm

(09:39):
a nurse, but we have to do it when we're
called on. Baby, fix me one more drink and hug
your daddy one more time. The nurse frowned. Are you

(10:00):
uh visiting someone? Yes, sir, I am who a very
sick man. Keep on stirring mid molted milk. Mama on too, uh,

(10:22):
change mama. The metal of a knob was cold. He
turned it stream of water. He reached into his pocket
and pulled out a folded tissue. A pill rolled out
onto his palm, shaped like a bass plate from a pitch,

(10:44):
A large a was molded on one side. He opened
his mouth, felt the hard pill on his tongue. The
water filled his cupped hands and then washed a little
thing down. My doornop keeps on turning. Must be spooks
around my bed. He lifted his hand, looked at its reflection.

(11:07):
It shook. What's the time, son, The voice crept out
from the melody. I guess it's He checked his watch.
His reflected eye stared back above the clicking hands. Six
forty five. A sigh. He shut off the water. I've

(11:30):
got to get this over with if I want to
go home. Nice talking to you. I have a warm,
old feeling and the hair rising on my head. A
pause that turned into dead silence. Andy had his hand

(11:54):
on the door. He took it off, crouched down slowly.
He saw clearly under every stall, saw every trunk of
every toilet planted in the tile. But no shoes, no legs.
The door swung open, and he slipped out, letting it
go behind him. He shook the outstretched hand. Andy kemper pleasure.

(12:25):
Sit down. The chair was thinly cushioned. He straightened his jacket.
I'm doctor Ellis, Gary Ellis, all right. You came highly recommended,
went to UVA School of Nursing. I know some of
the professors there. Oh fantastic. Do you know Harry. Yeah,
Harry Santiago, I know him. I know Karen Singh and

(12:49):
Ocion Molina did some talks there. I know him too.
Andy's eyes widened. Oh wow, okay, yeah, I could get
you a job at this place up Roanoke someday. His
eyes lifted. If you do well here, so tell me
about yourself. Andy reached for his tie. Not it was straight,

(13:10):
but he fiddled anyway. I was born in Richmond, moved
up to Charlottesville for school. I've always wanted to get
into medicine and nursing. Helping people is well. My mother
always instilled that in me, a desire to protect life.
I really love my mother, you know a lot. She's

(13:30):
my rock. Oh what does she do? She's a cardiologist.
A pen started scribbling. Oh okay, your father m He
left when I was ten. Hmm, it's more scribbling. Sorry, no,
it's okay. He was a deadbeat. A frown. How were

(13:52):
your grades? Very good? Yeah, very good, top of the
class a's, b's, well, mostly a's. He looked around the room.
Three degrees were hung behind the desk above the doctor's head.
Traffic shuffled behind aluminum blinds. The room smelled of antiseptic
and printer ink. So HR brought you on here. I'm

(14:17):
just gonna go over there notes to me. Let's see.
His blue eyes walked the printed type. What do you
hope you can learn here? What's your plan for the future,
Andy fiddled with a button on his jacket. His foot
was tapping the floor. Just absorb everything I possibly can,

(14:38):
I guess. The doctor's eyes snapped up. Make new professional connections,
work in the field, Just start somewhere. That's what mom
told me. The HR paper returned to the desk at
your age. That's really all you can do, isn't it.

(14:58):
Andy blinked. We deal with a lot of brutality here.
I'm sure you expected that. Of course, as we speak,
someone is now dead. He paused, And now and now
three families are crying somewhere in this building. Three nurses
are standing in these rooms, each with a corpse and

(15:22):
maybe an inconsolable child, a son or daughter, a wife
or a husband. School can teach you about which tube
goes where and what artery plugs into what organ, but
you can't teach a kid how to keep his soul
from slowly crumbling away. We're like soldiers, all right. A
nurse can get attached to their patients. Some become friends.

(15:46):
One day you walk into that room and your friend
might have gone in the night. What then, Ay, the
body is taken away, the sheets are replaced, and the
next patient gets tucked in. Now you're giving apple juice
and pudding to a completely different guy. The pen started
again and then stopped. Sometimes you pull the plug yourself.

(16:11):
Doctor gives the order and the nurse executes. In some cases,
the family might not want you to do it. Sometimes
they do. When they don't, it makes everything worse for
everyone involved. All right, yeah, I understand. No, you don't.
Not yet, you don't. He shuffled papers around on his desk.

(16:33):
I just need to know if you're ready to learn
fast and unpleasantly. Andy rubbed his hands together. His palms
were sweating. I yes, doctor, hah, you've got that bit
right already. The door was half open he pushed. The

(16:57):
lights were on inside, illuminating three people who turned in
unison to face him. There was nothing friendly in their eyes. Hi,
he pulled the door half closed. I'm Andy Kemper. The
man went first. Bill. He spoke his own name like
he was cursing. Angela Lorraine. His eyes tracked the nurse

(17:21):
as he gathered his equipment. You're the one who's gonna
take our baby away. The nurse looked over his shoulder.
A web of clear tubes had been stuck into the infant,
like it was a pincushion. It looked malnoursed, frail. One
of the women clutched its tiny hand. It must have

(17:41):
been the mother. Doctor Ellis did his examination. I was
told he left half an hour ago. We've had to
sit here with our baby breathing through a straw for
half a fucking hour before you showed up. I'm sorry,
huh fucking sorry, he says. They all went quiet. Andy

(18:05):
pulled a clean syringe and found the morphine. The needle
sucked at it, thirsty. A flick. He tested the plunger.
Liquid glass trickled down his glove. Now he gathered everything,
set it all on the rolling tray, and brought it
over to the bed. Don't you fucking touch my boy, Lorraine.

(18:26):
He's gonna kill him. Bill, shut up. Woman, shut up.
He's gone, all right, she cried. The other woman embraced her.
I'll wait until you're ready. The man looked up. He
was heavy, set with a baseball cap. Buccaneers? What really?
How can we be ready? I do you have kids? Boy? No, sir,

(18:51):
what are you nineteen twenty seven? Well, one day you'll
grow up and understand. He rubbed his eyes with his
thumb and index. You don't give a shit what you're doing. Huh.
Your fucking robots come in here every couple hours and
poke buttons and change tubes. Then when someone needs to die,
you pump them full and you pull the plug, take

(19:12):
the body out, and put another one in. That's not fair, sir,
It's not fair. He didn't finish. I'm sorry. I'll take
the sorry from God. I don't care what you feel like.
The second woman was glaring. When he met her gaze,
she seemed to snarl. What do they pay you? Huh?

(19:36):
Not a lot, ma'am. Well that's already too much. It
seemed like hours. He looked at the clock, seven point
thirty five. I need to do this. They didn't answer.
He took a step. No, Lorraine, shut it. The woman

(19:58):
started to rock back and forth. Not my baby, not
my baby, not my baby. Andy looked down at the child.
There was nothing in its expression. The eyes were closed,
its breathing was hoarse. He took hold of the arm,
pulled the skin taut. The woman wailed and fell out

(20:19):
of her chair. The needle broke the skin slid into
the muscle. He could feel the liquid pulsing as it
left the tip, finding its way into the bloodstream. They
had put a ventilator on the kid too. He gently
pried the mask off when he felt for breath with
his forearm. He sensed it on his arm hair, but

(20:42):
it was fading. The eyes empty already nothing. He stood,
put the needle in its disposal bin and turned to
the man. He hoped he would turn and face him,
but he didn't. He'll be gone soon. Someone will come

(21:02):
check on you, or you can let the receptionist know
when you leave. He left to the sound of sobbing.
It's been theorized that the human mind is conscious for
a time after death, something about neurons firing still, or

(21:23):
some kind of activity appearing in scans once a person
has passed. Yes, well, that's not been proven yet. Some
colleagues of mine a few years ago were toying around
with I think it was a rat's brain. At risk
of sounding graphic, They decapitated the poor thing and had
all sorts of sensors attached to its head, supposedly, and
I emphasized that strongly. They picked up activity, for I

(21:47):
believe it was three minutes, nothing remotely relating to conscious thought,
and in any case, it was indeed a rat and
not a man. Well, I also heard of something involving
a doghead or a cat head or oh god, that
that's the Russians in the forties. They managed to decapitate
a dog and then simulate a circulatory and respiratory system

(22:08):
that seemed to bring life back to the head in
some capacity. Yes, I saw the film, and that would
mean that the brain functions still if you reintroduce well,
a body with its systems intact, and you believe the
film is real, do you, doctor, I do not. Damage
would have been done to the brain once the blood

(22:30):
was drained from the body, and putting any trust in
a film shot in the forties and by Russians is
a dubious thing. They claimed the dog lived for years.
There's no proof of that in the film. It seems
to live for maybe a minute or two. Well, but
then that would prove my point, would it? Well, the
brain is conscious for a few minutes after death. Hmm, well,

(22:55):
I guess I'll have to do some experiments myself, but
definitely not on dogs. Yes, that's right, that's all the
time we have. Please thank my special guest, doctor Ocian
Molina from Cardinal Medicine right here in the state of
He shut the radio off. Rain crackled against the windshield.
Vague shapes of cars rushed past, left and right, images

(23:17):
muddied by the rivulets running down the windows. The vibrations
of the tires tried to lull him asleep. He checked
the clock on the dash eight thirty. A red light.
He reached up to run his hand across his face.
A glance out the window. The silhouette of another driver
was only just visible. He couldn't see any features, just

(23:38):
a shadow. There might have been smoke from a dark cigarette.
It created a swirling void. Something shifted in the back seat.
Green light. He couldn't turn around. He ignored the sound
as he stepped on the gas. Hot breath on his neck. Hello.
A quick glance over his shoulder. Nothing. He checked the

(24:02):
rear view mirror. Early this mornin', when you knocked upon
my door, he almost veered into the oncoming lane. A
head and shoulders were visible against the backdrop of the
rear windshield. Shadow no face. It was sitting right behind him,
and I said, hello, Satan, I believe it's time to go.

(24:24):
He caught his breath. What the fuck? How did you
get in here? Oh? Son? You gotta keep them eyes
on the road, don't you? Something like a snicker, Always
got to keep them eyes forward. There are spooks out
at night. Excuse me, how is your last job? Son?
Get the fuck out of my car? Silence. Okay, it

(24:48):
was a child, me an the devil was walking side
by side. The car smelled of rotten meat. It wasn't
coming from the air vents. The shadows said, your doctor
told you things when you first met him. Did you learn, son?
A moment passed. I feel empty. Then I guess he

(25:11):
was right about you. Wasn't prepared for what was coming.
Broken too easy. When I unplug someone, the ones that
die immediately, or the ones that were already dead, their
eyes change. They turn into wax dolls or husks. My

(25:35):
mind doesn't see them as a person anymore. They're not
They're a thing. Am I going to beat my woman
until I get satisfied. I don't see people. As some
lifted truck sped past over the limit, water splashed up
onto the windshield. I don't have friends, really, maybe I'm sociopathic.

(26:01):
You've got me, son, I'll be here whenever you need me.
Don't you worry? Andy didn't smile. Have you pulled the
plug on someone and regretted it? I regret everyone. Well,
that's a shit way of looking at it. You're ending

(26:22):
a man suffering. He spun the wheel, did a U turn.
But what if that man wants to fight. Maybe he's
in pain but he wants to try and get through somehow.
We can't tell because he's in a coma. And then
we cut it short. You may bury my body down
by the highway side. But the doc made his call.

(26:45):
Are you doubting his education? I don't know. I think
people can be wrong. Oh now look here, so my
old evil spirit can get a greyhound bus and ride
more hot breath on his neck. It was almost scalding,
like kettle steam, and then nothing. He checked the mirror again.

(27:09):
The shadow was gone. The back wiper flipped back and forth,
peeling droplets away from the glass. Ahead, a car was
stopped on the side of the road. Hazard lights blinking
metal was wrinkled like paper. Webs ran through glass. Blood
had mixed with the rain. Atop the asphalt, droplets pelted

(27:29):
the disemboweled corpse of a dough The car had torn
its stomach and spilled its life across the highway. Red
and blue lights flashed in the water, trailing down the
nurse's windshield. He turned away and kept driving. I heard
about your mother. Andy's eyes flicked up wide. Oh, I'm sorry,

(27:55):
m thank you. The pen went to scribbling. Are you
planning anything? The pen stopped? Are you all right? Silence? Look,
it's hard to plan celebrations alone. I know, and eightieth
birthday is a big one. It's shit. Your dad's not

(28:17):
in the picture to help out. You have any aunts uncles? No,
damn well, shouldn't waste the occasion. I hope you can
spend some quality time with her. The pen stopped. Doctor
ellis fitted into a cramped pen holder. How are things
going here? Are you learning lots making those connections? Yeah? Yeah,

(28:40):
I am good. Good. I like to hear that the
patients seem to like you. You're efficient, You're effective. A
lot of the other nurses really get shaken up when
they get asked to pull someone you don't. Maybe we
should do a check up on you. It's a necessary thing, though,
I'm sure you get that by now. Can't keep patience

(29:01):
here forever, getting pumped with drugs and getting cut up
for months on end. Even if the families don't get that,
all right, we're all fragile. Humans are like glass. You
can harden it and make it stronger, but it's still
gonna break if you drop it. Yes, doctor, The nurse's
attention drifted. There was a framed poem on the wall

(29:22):
above the degrees. He'd read it tens of times over
by now, while sitting in this chair, do not stand
by my grave and weep. I am not there. I
do not sleep. It was a small clipping from Claire Harner.
Sunlight had faded the printed letters. That's my favorite. Andy

(29:44):
looked down at the doctor. Oh, I'm sorry they read
the full thing At my mother's funeral. Ellis spun in
his chair to look up at the frame. I like
to think that when a person dies, something leaves them
that becomes a part of nature, like a soul. Maybe
I know it's not true, of course, but it helps
to comfort the mine. He spun back, shuffled some papers around.

(30:09):
What do you think when we die? We're gone? The
body shuts down. The brained eyes spoken like a man
of science. He tilted his head, looked hard at the nurse.
Does that make it easier? Sorry, when you're working? The

(30:29):
nurse fiddled with the bottom lining of his scrub top. No, no,
I guess it makes it harder. The receptionist was gone.
Nurses and doctors muled about the halls, some sprinting with clipboards,
others talking. Andy leaned against the counter. A plastic brochure

(30:53):
holder sat off to the side. The text on the
topmost one was bolded, have you checked your eyes? A
smiling woman was peering over the lower stack of brochures.
He reached over to straighten the holder. The phone started
to ring. A little light blinked. Oh shit. The receptionist
rushed around the corner, just returning from the bathroom. She

(31:14):
wrenched on the rolling chair, sat and snatched the phone.
Santiago Mullina sent her this is the ICU front desk,
Glinda speaking. She tapped the pen against her note pad
as she listened. Andy, the nurse looked over doctor taking
a breather Elie came over leaned on the counter next
to him. You've been doing great lately, all right, honestly.

(31:39):
Snap the pen struck the counter between them. Linda frowned
and motioned to the phone at her ear. Ellis took
the nurse by the shoulder and they left the receptionist
to her call. We had a guy come in yesterday
accident on the highway. Apparently had a fractured rib cage
and some broken bones in his arms. Fucking ugly shit

(32:00):
sounds like it. Surgeries are tough. One wrong cut and
the guy or gal starts bleeding where they shouldn't be.
Brain stuff is worse, obviously. I'm glad I'm just watching
sometimes and not holding the knife. He straightened his jacket.
But listen, all right, I've got another job for you.
An old girl with Alzheimer's. She had a stroke and

(32:23):
she's deteriorating rapidly. Won't eat, won't sleep, the whole thing,
all right. Her heart's slowing down every day. Poor girl.
She's getting violent too, So hopefully she's asleep when you
get in. If not, you can give her some tamazapam
and morphine. If you end up needing help, you can
call for someone. So is her family in there? No,

(32:47):
her husband died a while back. Apparently she lived alone
for years. No kids, no nothing. A neighbor called the
report loud sounds and things being thrown around in the house.
They brought her here. It's a shit cake. The nurse
felt his heart beat in his skull. So take out
the ivy, shut off the monitor. All that give her

(33:09):
something to help her sleep, you know the drill. She
might be getting moved to hospice at that point. If
she holds on, he smiled, All clear, Yes, doctor, a
smack on the shoulder. That's what I like to hear.
He knocked. No answer. The hinges needed oiling, or maybe

(33:29):
they were screaming inside. The lights were shut off, but
morning sunlight filtered through the blinds. The whole room smelled
of rot. Someone had plugged a febrieze into the wall
socket beside the plug for the television. She was sitting
up in bed. The sun kept him from discerning much
detail from her face, apart from the obvious smile. Come in.

(33:50):
He felt his heart thumping. Gray strands of hair hung
down over a wrinkled face, unwashed. Her eyelids had nearly
shrunken up up into the sockets. He stayed by the door.
I'mandy kemper silence. Is there no one here with you?

(34:12):
No there? Sound flewed unformed from between crackling lips. Someone
had left a pile of bloody rags on the counter
opposite the bed, unsanitary. Above it, a lot of flies
had collected on the ceiling. They flew between the rags,

(34:35):
the ceiling, and the woman in the bed where they went.
When they got to her, he couldn't see. The nurse
entered gradually retrieved what he needed from around the room, gloves,
the rolling tray, the needle, the morphine. He felt snaps
and pops under his sneakers, buzzing. You should lie down,

(34:57):
She didn't. Wherever he went he felt her your mother Susa.
He stopped. The smell was almost overpowering standing so close,
it was like fried meat. He was sure her skin

(35:18):
was only a suit, that it wasn't connected to muscle anymore.
What did you say? Something came from deep inside her chest,
a sound he never heard, and when he never wanted
to hear again, like every organ had ruptured and turned
to liquid and started to boil. She grabbed at him,

(35:39):
but he easily stepped aside. Ma'am, will you stop? He
filled the syringe, your mother. The woman's thin hair was
whipping violently as she thrashed forward him back. It was
a violent motion. He thought she was trying to snap
her own spine. Pink discharge ran down the sides of

(36:02):
her mouth. Then it came from her eyes. The bed
rocked maggots shook loose from between the mattress and bedsheets.
They fell to the ground and writhed the motion, wrung
urine out of the bed, letting it drip and pull beneath.
The nurse watched. He didn't move. My do naub keeps

(36:24):
on turning. It must be spooks around my bed. It
came from the bathroom. He turned saw a face floating
in the shadowy doorframe. He recognized that face. Kill the bitch.
She continued to wail, Kill the bitch, Son, kill the bitch,

(36:48):
and shall shut the fuck up. This is it, Andy boy,
this is the one. The woman rocked forward hard and
lost her balance. She went over the foot of the
bed and landed head first. There was no more wailing
after that. Andy looked back at the bathroom. The face
was gone. He set the needle down, backed away from

(37:10):
the bed. Her body was mangled and twisted. Flies crawled
out from the openings in the rotting blue hospital gown.
The eyes were staring at him, and he knew then
that she could still see him. The thing that always
left was still there. The lock jangled, then snapped. He

(37:38):
opened the door and went in street. Lamp overshine painted
strange shapes across his apartment furniture. Eagerly, he flicked the
light switch, took off his coat and put down a
brown paper bag from his inner pocket. It was wet,
but thankfully hadn't broken through. Off came his shoes, then
he slid them into their place neatly. He set the

(37:59):
bag on the counter and open the fridge. Tomorrow he
would have to go shopping. There was just enough apple sauce.
He pried one free from the cardboard and found a spoon.
The kitchen radio fizzled. Stubbornly came to life. Eyes are
the window to the soul? Do you believe in a soul?
I do as as an EmPATH. I deal with the

(38:21):
soul every day. Right? Why is it that I can
see spirits and communicate with the beyond? Well? The soul
leaves us when we die and goes somewhere else. I
was gifted, fortunately, with the ability to tap into that
other side and talk with people's souls. So when you

(38:42):
look into someone's eyes, can I mean, can you see
anything there that's special? Well, you know, i'd say what
I just said, the eyes are the window. I don't
know if I can read your mind really or communicate
with your soul when it's in your body. When it's
in your body, then like just talking to you is

(39:04):
communicating with your soul. Oh right, I think something special
that's hard. I see ours around people, you mean, like
white light and that sort of thing. Essentially, if someone
has bad intentions or if their soul is corrupted, then
I can see that darkness and vice versa. You believe

(39:28):
in God, Oh I do. God gave me this gift.
I don't know why, but he did. I thank him
every day for it. Her room was shut, but the
flies still slipped under the door. When he opened it,
he felt her warmth, the smell. It used to smell
like fried meat, but now it just smelled like her

(39:50):
How she used to smell, Hi Mom. He set the
paper bag down on the rolling tray, There were tools there, bloody,
but they were her tools. Beside the bed was a
heart rate monitor. The sound was shut off, but the
screen displayed a constant line. Work wasn't great, but I
got something for you, Silence. It'll help us communicate better,

(40:14):
I think. He picked up the bag and opened it
with a gentle shake. Two eyeballs rolled out onto the tray.
He picked one up, looked into the pupil. It was
still there. It hadn't left. These are the ones, mom, Okay,
I finally found them. We can pluck those old ones

(40:36):
out and put these new ones in. But after your dinner,
all right, you have to eat this time. Don't just
keep it in your mouth. He peeled open the apple
sauce and dug the spoon inside. I love you, Silence,
just like always. What I loved about this story was

(41:02):
how it portrayed so many different facets of death, and
how it showed that deaths can be shaped by the
people around the dying. The loving family who helped transition
their loved one, the hysterical family who couldn't let go,
and the angry family at the end, who were searching
for anyone to blame and took out their anger and grief.
On the nurse, we caught glimpses of the death care industry,

(41:26):
from the genuinely compassionate to the business like and detached,
and of course that chilling twist at the end, reminding
us that those who choose to work so closely with
death often carried their own private reasons, although my god,
I hope none of them are for that reason. There's
so much more to explore on this topic about how

(41:47):
we die, how we grieve, and how we support each
other through it all. The kaidon Kai has so many
interesting stories like this one from every genre, so please
subscribe to the podcast and check out our social media.
We have substack, Instagram, Facebook, and Blue Sky. It's all

(42:09):
in the episode description. So thank you for listening today.
I hope it didn't upset you this story. See you
next week.