Our hospice staff did everything we could for poor old Mr. Calvin. Lots of drugs so he would feel nothing. The finest bedding so we could say he felt comfortable.
Loved ones visited often throughout his brief stay at our facility. They brought personal mementos and lots of flowers. Sometimes they talked to him. He never replied.
The man’s youngest son arrived shortly after receiving word of his father’s declining condition. He wore basketball shoes, grey sweatpants and an oversized, white t-shirt with a big yellow smiley face. He held a small vase of flowers, a price tag still attached, with a little card stuck to the side which read “Get Well Soon!”
“I just wanted the flowers, I didn’t see the card,” the son said.
He gently placed the vase alongside several others on the nightstand. I noticed dark bags under his eyes as he awkwardly stared at his father from above. I motioned for him to have a seat in a chair next to the bed.
“Please,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable. Is there anything I can do for you right now?”
“Maybe some coffee,” the son replied.
I nodded before leaving to fetch one of our coffee kits. A common request by our patients and their guests, we prepare dozens of these kits every day. They include a kettle of cheap coffee along with little packets of sugar and powdered creamer.
The son was fidgeting with the bedside radio when I returned with the coffee. He struggled to adjust the dials, having to reach around the swath of flowers, ultimately landing on a Gospel music station. A grainy rendition of It is Well with my Soul floated harshly through the speakers.
“This is one of his favorites, at least I think it is,” he said. “He listened to all sorts of old-timey religious music. I can’t tell any of it apart.”
“I am sure he appreciates the gesture,” I said.
I set the coffee kit on a side table along with a little foam cup. The son was silent. He stared at his father who was half covered in a blanket, breathing heavily and letting out the occasional phlegm-filled cough.
“You know,” the son said in the midst of another hymn. “I was hoping we could get two of these cups for the coffee.”
“Ah, yes,” I replied. “Absolutely.”
I retrieved a second cup which the son carefully inspected, rubbing his thumb along its brim.
“Does this place have liquid creamer,” the son asked without looking up from the foam dish. “You know, just regular half-and-half? Dad always hated that powdered stuff,”
“Uh yes, absolutely. I can go see—”
“Because if he wakes up and sees that I got him coffee, but that I got him powdered creamer and not liquid… I just don’t know.”
He stared at the little white cup.
“He likes a specific shade of light brown and he knows when it isn’t perfect,” the son said. “He’ll know after one sip that it isn’t right, that I didn’t make it right. He will know that it has powdered creamer.”
Crackling voices hummed through the radio, this time singing Amazing Grace. The son picked up the little white packet of creamer, flipping it over in his hands to read the ingredients.
“I would just feel a lot better if we had some half-and-half,” he said. I told him I would see if we had any in the kitchen.
Mason Cole is a writer and communications professional based in Cleveland, Ohio.
If you enjoyed this story, show your support on Patreon.
