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Hal Callahan awoke and immediately wished he hadn’t. He could feel the pain slowly, rhythmically radiating out from his left side, from around his barely active and only remaining kidney. Callahan opened his eyes slowly, fighting the ever-present sensation of nausea. The room was dark. He turned his head, even though it hurt to do so, just enough so he could see the oversized, red digital numbers on the clock on his night table. 2:36. He groaned, then groaned again. Even the effort it took to growl his discomfort from behind his compressed lips was painful. He had only been asleep for a little over half an hour since the last time he was jerked awake by the ever-present demon of pain. It was going to be a long night. “Penny?” His nurse answered immediately, her voice a bodiless comfort in the darkness. “Yes, Mr. Callahan.” “Hal. Please call me Hal.” “Yes, Hal.” “More drip, please.” “I am sorry, Hal, I can not complete your request.” “I’m hurting here.” “I am sorry, Hal. You will exceed the recommended cc’s for this time period.” “But I’m in pain,” he pleaded. “Yes, your serotonin levels are elevated, your heart rate is—” “Can you—?” “I am sorry, Hal.” “Anything?” “I can offer fifty milligrams of a class two pain inhibitor. This may assist you in returning to a reasonable level of comfort.” Callahan grunted, carefully, “Very well. You’re a tough one, aren’t you?” “Your health is my first priority, Mr. Callahan.” “Right, and call me Hal.” “Yes, Hal. Please accept my apology.” A feeling of calming warmth began to flow outward from his left forearm where the IV was connected, a promising reprise from agony. “Penny?” “Yes, Mr. Callahan.” “Hal.” “Yes, Hal.” “Could you bring up the lights?” “Do you wish to rise? I will need assistance.” “No, I just want to have a look at Emma.” “How many lumens?” “Six or so.” The globe on the ceiling of the room suddenly glowed like the light from a handful of candles, and Hal turned his head again toward the nightstand. “Thank you, Penny.” “You are quite welcome, Hal.” Emma smiled at him from the photo next to the clock. She seemed so young, so vivacious. She was. The image was taken almost forty years ago, three decades before the cancer robbed his wife of her looks and her life. It would soon take his. “Penny?” “Yes, Hal?” “Can I talk to you?” “Of course, Hal. Do you wish to discuss today’s weather or the latest newscast?” “Is it raining? I like the rain.” “No, I am sorry, it is not raining. The temperature is 21 Celsius, with winds of 2.5 kilometres coming from the southeast. The dew point is—” “Could we talk about Emma?” “Of course, Hal. What era of her life do you wish to discuss?” “I just wanted to talk.” “Of course, Hal.” “She was beautiful.” “Her image on the night stand is striking. She was quite lovely.” “We farmed in Alberta.” “Yes, south of Vulcan.” “We milked a couple-hundred head of Guernsey.” “Yes.” “Emma was right there with me. Slingin’ hay and sloppin’ hogs with the best of the hired hands.” “You raised pigs?” “For slaughtering. I miss bacon. Can still smell it sometimes … even in here.” Callahan let his fatigued eyes slip away from Emma. It hurt to keep his head turned to the side for that long anyway. “We had a dog. Several over the years.” “Yes. Max. Pug. Dolly—” “Brutus.” He interrupted her mechanical recounting of the names of the pet dogs he had obviously told her about before. Though, he couldn’t quite remember when he had done so. “Yes. Brutus. A lab collie cross.” “Yeah. Loved that dog. Used to chase the chickens, though.” Penny laughed. Callahan shifted. He wished he could feel his legs, even if for just one more time. He had found a passionate solace in running, but that seemed so long ago now. “Are you comfortable, Hal?” his nurse asked. Callahan sighed. “Just feeling my age.” “You are ninety-two, Hal.” He guffawed and immediately wished he hadn’t. “Ouch. Thanks for reminding me.” “You are quite welcome.” “I was being facetious.” Penny laughed. “I am aware of your humour. “I am old.” “Yes, but you have lived a meaningful and productive life.” Callahan nodded slightly. “I suppose.” “You and Emma raised two sons.” “Uh-huh.” Barton, the eldest, and Montgomery, but he had only seen Barton once since entering the home over three years ago. Monty had sent him a Christmas card the year before, but his lanky son had not visited. The home provided his every need, his son had said in an e-mail. What was there for him to do except sit and watch his father die. He wouldn’t have it. Emma had been in this same institution and—Callahan felt a twinge of guilt—he too had eventually come to visit her only every other month. He hadn’t needed to, he had reasoned many times, because the institution provided very good pre- and post-death care. Now they were taking very good care of him. He would die completely without any need of any kind, except maybe the touch of another human being. Soon (he allowed himself to romanticize) he would be with his wife. The colon cancer had stricken his body, stripping his strength, leaving him gaunt—a shadow of the brawny, hard-working man he had once been. However, it was his heart that would eventually kill him. Too many miles on the old ticker, the doctors had informed him; and just too old for a transplant from a donor, or genetically engineered, or otherwise. Penny had already resuscitated him four times over the last five days, clawing him back from the brink. His nurse was an excellent and highly skilled caregiver, Callahan knew, but he was tired—tired of living and had asked that he not be revived should his heart fail again. It was time. Time to be with Emma. “Do you wish to continue this conversation, Hal?” “No, that’s all right. Thank you, Penny.” “You are quite welcome, Mr. Callahan.” “Hal.” “Hal. Do you wish to have the lighting returned to normal for this time period?” “That’d be fine.” The room immediately grew dark and all that Callahan could hear was the soft hum of life support machines, which flanked his bed, and the rasp of his own breathing. He felt a sudden wave of sorrow; he could no longer recall the sound of Emma’s breathing next to him. He missed her touch. He longed to— “Mr. Callahan?” “Hal.” “Hal.” “Yes, Penny?” “Your breathing is laboured. Your pulse has risen ten per cent. You are experiencing elevated discomfort.” He was. His chest hurt, like his rib cage was trapped in the jaws of a crushing vise. “I am having a hard time breathing.” The room light brightened enough for Callahan to see. “Your heart is failing.” His nurse said. “Am I going to die?” “That is the likely prognosis, Hal.” “Do… not… resuscitate me.” “The DNR order has been noted on your chart.” The alarm began to sound on his heart monitor. It was loud. Annoying. “Turn… that off.” The beeping stopped. “Penny.” “Yes, Hal.” “Could you hold my hand?” “I am unable to do so, Hal.” “I know.” It hurt. Hurt like nothing he’d ever felt. It was even worse than the cancer. He wanted it to end. “Penny?” “Yes.” “Thank you.” “You are quite welcome, Mr. Callahan.” “Hal.” It was the last word Callahan spoke. “Yes. Hal.” Callahan did not hear the reply. Pulse: none. Respiration: none. Brain function: none. Rupert Henry Callahan was dead. The room flooded with brilliant light as the machine noise faded. Penny spoke: “Patient 412956-078ND has ceased to exist. Request notification of relatives and removal of remains.” A voice, as efficient and routine as Penny’s, spoke from a concealed speaker somewhere in the ceiling above the lifeless body of Hal Callahan: “Patient 412956-078ND’s cease of life functions are noted. Time of death noted as 2:47 a.m. Immediate relatives contacted and notified. Do you confirm, PNE511C?” “Confirmed.” “You may log off for internal diagnostics, PNE511C. You will be assigned to patient 483501-341ND, Room 4033, Level 45, Section C, at 1100 hours. Confirm.” “Confirmed.” PNE511C bio-scanned the still form of Hal Callahan one more time, adding the data to the hospital directory. The immediate relatives would wish the information for insurance purposes. “Goodbye, Mr. Callahan,” PNE511C said, then beeped. “Good bye, Hal.” Personal Nursing Entity 511C logged off.
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