It’s 2 in the morning when the gurney arrives. The transporter solemnly bows her head. “Condolences,” she says. Her partner wheels the death metal into the room where you lay.
“This is the last time I will ever see you.”
I watch the two women work, unzipping a bag and unfurling another, and they carefully slide the woman I met ten years ago into the white plastic bag. I’m torn. I can’t believe what I am seeing, but I’m comprehending everything, and yes, this is actually happening. The two women will take you away to a cold, sterile room with fluorescent bulbs so bright everything is white. And there, tools will be used to excise your brain. Ph. Ds will then study and examine tissue separated from tissue, and a thesis will be made. They’re going to write a thesis about your brain. And yes, this is actually happening. The bag is zipped—
“Goodbye, my love”—
and straps are snapped to secure you to the gurney. I scribble my signature on a release form and watch as you pass through the door of our home one final time.
And outside, an early morning spring rain begins to tumble from the sky. Sounds like soft static surround me. And the white van drives away.