Death Bed Jerry

I got the news that Brother Jerry was dying. Again. So I went to the hospital. Again. Sat there holding his hand until his last dying breath. Again. Please.

The doctor came into the room and he had no idea who Brother Jerry was. Not a religious man: the doctor. Not a man of god. A man of science, I presume. We’ll see about that.

But it’s for sure he didn’t know who Brother Jerry was because yesterday when people first started milling around down below in the parking lot he was caught quite by surprise. First one straggler, then another. Then a group. Then a gaggle. Then a concern for hotel security: the last thing they wanted was a mob on their hands. By the time the doctor showed up this morning, there must have been at least a hundred people down below. You ain’t seen nothing yet.

By this after-lunch, there were a thousand. Easy. And now, as the doctor looked out upon the masses: thousands. With a S. “Who are they?” asked the doctor, “and how did they all get here so fast?” Again, clearly the doctor had no idea who Brother Jerry was.

“What do they want?” asked the doctor.

A song, I told him.

“A song?”

A song.

“But that’s out of the question,” said the doctor. “This man is in no condition to be singing any songs. He’s on his death bed, if you haven’t noticed.”

Haven’t noticed? Who was this clown? Was he a real doctor, or was he Doogie Howser MD? No songs? Why not? Worried it might kill him or something?

But there was no stopping Brother Jerry when he set his mind to something. He could hear his people as they started singing down below. First, just the soft whisper of a tune; but then, as more people joined in, it was almost like a church choir. Or christmas carols. And then, you could hear it plain as day. And so could Brother Jerry. And he smiled. He smiled that big plump wonderful smile, and that only meant one thing: it was time for a song.

So Brother Jerry reached down below the bed and pulled out from under it: a guitar.

“How did that get there?” said the doctor. Little did he know, Brother Jerry always had a guitar within arm’s reach. It was in his contract.

So Brother Jerry sat upright and he got me and the doctor to wheel that bed over by the window where he could see out and more importantly, they could see in. Once they caught a glimpse of him, they went nuts. Elvis, nuts.

Brother Jerry was never one to disappoint. If he had any flaws (and he had plenty), it was that he just couldn’t say No. Not to drugs, not to drink—NOT TO HOT DOGS—and certainly not to his followers. Disappoint his congregation? Not on your life. He’d just as soon die.

Brother Jerry set into a few of the old classics and seconds became minutes that turned into hours. All sense of time and place went up in smoke as Jerry crooned on into the night. It was my job to keep him supplied with water. That’s all I had to do. That, and swipe as many scrips as I could get my hands on while the doctors and nurses were busy dancing the night away.

Everything was going according to plan when all of a sudden Brother Jerry’s bed starting rising toward the sky. The ceiling. Whatever.

Higher and higher it went. High up into the sky. Then, suspended in mid-air. The music was playing, the people were praying; it was a miracle, I tell you. The nurses couldn’t gauge it, the doctors couldn’t explain it; it was as if the good lord himself was calling Brother Jerry home. Not hardly.

The reality of it is that the spring mechanism in the bed itself failed. It was either hospital negligence, or manufacturer error, not the good lord, that was calling Brother Jerry home. Still, the music played on. Brother Jerry was so into the song that he never even noticed he was ten feet off the ground. Then, that hospital bed did what the good lord had no intention of ever doing: it sprang into action. The metal rod doohickey holding the undercarriage thingamajig snapped and the whole bed flew forward, launching Brother Jerry like a catapult in Medieval times. It was truly a sight to behold.

Brother Jerry went flying through the air with the greatest of ease. He never stopped playing, not even as he blew past the open window and out into the wild blue yonder. The music never stopped. If god really wasn’t involved, he was missing one helluva show.

And that was that. I wish I could tell you that he flew out that window like some great bird into the clear blue sky, but it wouldn’t be true. Brother Jerry was an old man. He was overweight and diabetic, and he dropped like a sack of sweet potatoes.

But wait! There’s more.

Were you waiting for a miracle? The crowd below certainly was.

The good news is, Brother Jerry did not meet concrete. He did not splatter what was left of his brains all over the parking lot of the Our Mother of Infinite Guilt Charity Hospital that day. He instead fell into the crowd, like it was a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert. Close enough.

That crowd was better than a fireman’s net. Brother Jerry fell into their arms like they were rubber bands, bouncing him right back without even a scratch. And guess what, too? That’s right: the music never stopped. Instead, Brother Jerry landed on his feet, then walked off into the distance. Down towards the bay. Singing all the way. Wow. And you say you don’t believe in miracles.

Miracles withstanding, I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out just a couple of things: a few minor details. First off, that wasn’t Brother Jerry’s death bed. That bed was made by Invacare, probably from as far back as the 1970s, so no wonder it malfunctioned. Secondly, his room was on the first floor, so there was nothing too miraculous about his surviving the fall. And last but not least: when he went out the window, all the doctors and nurses went out and around to the parking lot as well—but the long way around. That meant I was left all alone for about, like ten minutes. You can do a lot of damage in ten minutes in an empty hospital, especially when you’re favorite movie is Drugstore Cowboy. Yee-haw!!!

Brother Jerry was going to be very, very happy when I catch up with him later tonight. I better not take too long, though. The Dilaudid they gave him would be wearing off in just a few hours. After that, he’s going to get very cranky.

Hospital negligence or minor miracle? Manufacturer error? I’ll let you be the judge. As for me, I gotta skedaddle. I was perfectly legal when I came to this place this morning, not so sure I could talk my out of it now.

Anyway, until the next time I get the news that Brother Jerry is dying. Again. And I go to the hospital. Again. And I sit there holding his hand until his last dying breath. Again. Death bed Jerry. Again. And the music never stopped.