Background
Thirty something, Jameson has met seventy something, Iris. They bond over coffee. This is the story of their unlikely friendship.
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This novella is written in dual first person points of view. Each chapter will be labeled as to who is narrating.
So far, Jameson has met a senior citizen, Iris. They meet for coffee weekly. Iris is wise and grounded and it is just what he needs. He has filed for divorce, and Iris is in the final stage of heart failure. Unbeknownst to him, she has changed her will making him beneficiary of her estate.
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IRIS
The shutting down of one's body is like being lost in a maze. You find another obstacle every which way you turn. And, if that isn't bad enough, your mind is about all you can say hasn't changed. I've never been a genius. But, I can honestly say I still feel sharp, mind intact, and fully aware that I'm trapped in a broken down shell.
My grandfather lived with my family when I was a little girl. As his body started to give out, he grew mean. Snapping at John and me for the smallest things. I started to resent him, to the point where I wouldn't come into the room if he was in there. It hurt because he had always been such a sweet old man before he got sick.
My mother explained it the best way she knew how. "Iris, he still loves you. He's afraid. His mind is still sharp as a tack. It wants to fight, but his body wants to rest."
I understand now. My mind isn't ready. No matter how tired my body is, I'm not ready to leave this place.
Jameson pulls to the curb at precisely nine-thirty. He hops out of the car and jogs up to the porch where I sit, enjoying the light breeze. He's clean shaven, dressed in black pants and a powder blue shirt.
"My goodness, you look very daper,"
I say, standing and reaching for the porch railing.
Color rushes to his cheeks. "I guess I clean up pretty well. Can't show up looking homeless." He reaches for my arm.
After making it down the walk to his car, he looks past me. "Your house is beautiful. I like the brick. You don't see that very often around here."
"Lou, my late husband, insisted on brick. Said brick was about the only material that would stand up to a hurricane."
He starts the car and he looks over at me. "Tell me about your husband. What was he like?"
I think about it. "Well, he either liked you or he didn't. He didn't care if you were a bank president or a janitor. If you treated people with respect, you were on the good list. He hated a phony."
"You and he must have had a lot in common. Cause I know you don't put up with a lot."
He means it as a compliment. I can tell by his smile. "He would have liked you, Jameson."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
Jameson pulls up in front of the building where Dr. Chalmers' office is. He pops on his hazards and runs around to open my door. "I'll find a parking spot and meet you inside."
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Jameson sits in the waiting room while the sweet little nurse takes me into an examination room and checks my vital signs.
I follow Dr. Chalmers back to his office while the nurse goes to get Jameson.
"I'm Jeffrey Chalmers, Iris's doctor," he says, extending his hand to Jameson, as soon as he walks in.
"Jameson Petry, nice to meet you."
He motions for us to sit. "I'm guessing she's filled you in on why we're here today."
Jameson nods but looks toward me nervously. "Yes, sir."
I clear my throat in an effort to remind the good doctor that I'm sitting right here.
"Okay. Things are going to start getting a bit tougher now. "
"Wonderful." My words come out sharply. Sharper than I intended.
"First thing we need to go over is how you want to handle things. Would you like hospice to come in or would you prefer to have hospital care?"
"There's no one to take care of me at home, so, I guess it's the hospital."
Dr. Chalmers writes it down. "I'm going to suggest we put you down as a DNR." He looks up, waiting for me. I can't argue about that but I sure as hell don't want to acknowledge it either.
Jameson looks at Dr. Chalmers then at me. "DNR?"
"Do not resuscitate," I say quietly.
"What exactly does that mean?"
"It means no measures will be taken once she starts actively dying. We will make sure she's comfortable."
Jameson goes pale. "Can I ask why?"
Dr. Chalmers takes off his glasses and pauses before looking at me, not as a doctor but as a friend. Someone who has been there since the beginning. "Congestive heart failure is, in its final stage, neither pretty nor pleasant. Why would we want to prolong it?"
Jameson nods. His jaw is tight. He's fighting to maintain composure. Maybe I've made a mistake. He already has so much going on. This may just be too much for him.
I reach over and squeeze his arm. "I've had a bit more time to get used to the idea."
Dr. Chalmers goes over the list of what to expect. I remain silent as I try to take it all in.
"Maybe I'll go in my sleep, like Lou. He looked so peaceful."
As our meeting of the minds ends, I realize we were only in there for eleven minutes. Eleven minutes to make the decisions to dictate your last days on earth.
Jameson is quiet, dare I say, shell shocked as we walk to the car.
"You can back out. I wouldn't blame you."
He stops walking, turns and hugs me. "No, ma'am. I'm gonna be here for you. You're all I've got."
