When the day came that he was lying in bed, wasting away toward death, what Albert Carlson, the famed writer of short stories, did not want to see was that the Caregiver assigned to aid in his crossing over to the other side lacked three of the four standard limbs given to most humans at birth.
A teaser on the radio for an upcoming program had informed Albert that just such a man was in existence. A man who not only lacked three limbs, but had been somehow inspired by his amputations to pursue a career in hospice care. From the teaser Albert had also gathered that it had been an accident that left the man—whose name was entirely too Asiatic for Albert to remember—lacking all but the single appendage. Which appendage the teaser had not specified.
Albert had immediately imagined the Asian man, bedside, in an array of different configurations. One arm, no legs. One leg, no arms. With hooks for hands. At eye level, wheelchair bound.
He assumed also that the man’s heart was in a good place. It would have to be. Possibly his accident had brought him near enough to death that he felt now qualified to comfort others at that door, had the credentials to give them a glimpse of what lay in wait on the other side.
Good for him, Albert thought, but found it a bit presumptive of the Asian triple amputee. He hoped that they would at least consult him before bringing such a man into his dying room. Not the Asian part. Albert had no issues with that. The missing limbs. There should be a waiver of some sort. Notification.
Of course, he might change his opinion between now and then, but at the moment it struck him that such a man would only complicate the matter of letting go. He will have finally come to terms with all of the question he would have to leave unanswered, the stories he would have to leave unwritten and in would hop this Asian man on his one leg and stir the pot anew.
He’d need someone entirely banal.
No. That wouldn’t even work, would it? He was already imagining the story there, the questions piling up. He’d have to die alone.
Albert Carlson placed his favorite pen and the last of his writing paper into the fire and went into his bedroom to die.
Perhaps it would be just as well, Albert thought, the one legged Asian man.
