Prose poem: Making Waves

He chose the day, the time, and the last line he would ever utter. Summer solstice 25 years ago - his last change of season.

It’s a very odd feeling to find yourself unable to reach out and grab things. It is especially awful for me not to be able to pet my cat, Ella. Ella knows something is wrong. 

How 

does one 

look into the 

light and not blink?  

I see my wife carry in 6 bags of groceries while I watch from the window as 1,367 Oregon raindrops pelt her black hooded jacket. The leaves are down forming a soft carpet on the grass. I tried to get out and see them while they were alive and blowing in the wind like they were saying “Look at me now, I’m beautiful, look at my color, you walk by and don’t even look up, don’t you hear me screaming, UP HERE!”

Nailed 

on the wall, 

three large white boards 

marked with numbers, words, needs.  

Hot/cold says one. Sports on TV says another. 

Holding eyelid too hard idiot, says a third. 

Propped up, hospital bed, living room, 

age of thirty-four, he squints  

at the boards as a friend 

painstakingly 

reads from 

them.   

Another thing gone: my fast fingers and ability to speed dial.

He speaks in blinks. 

Family, friends, caregivers 

call out numbers, letters, words, 

giving him reason to open his eyes. Wink.  

Being mute is something I never dreamed would happen to me. It is by far the cruelest aspect of my illness. The few people that can understand me lose interest in what I’m saying because it’s so hard to understand me. I miss talking more than anything else.

Framed around him, famous and not,

friends pictured in color 

and black and white. 

On a bookshelf, 

two trumpets 

stand side by side, 

as if on break sharing a joint.

By his bed, a ventilator softly breathes 

for him. Lungs hung it up, threw in the towel. 

One time while I was still driving, I went for coffee and bought it and returned to my yellow Rambler and as I reached for the door I leaned back and missed the handle and started falling backward. Imagine what it’s like to fall back with no idea what’s behind you and with your arms completely useless. I only had that rush of horror the first few times I fell. After that the falls took on a strange peaceful sensation, almost like floating. I quit worrying about what was going to happen and enjoyed the ride down. I hit the sidewalk hard, my head snapped back with a crack and I saw a flash of white light inside my brain. Some people helped me get up and into my car. They made sure I was able to drive (so much so that I thought they’d never leave). After they left, I broke down and cried with my head on the wheel. 

Jazz cat is too cliché, but he did know cool,

could blow holes in the roof, 

glide like a fool, 

but rug pulled

mid-tune. Too soon. 

House lights come up. 

There will be no encore. 

I pretend to be stone. In my box. Behind my glasses. During this whole thing I’ve had trouble looking people in the eyes. Maybe I see their thoughts about me, they’re as afraid of my situation as I am. 

Gone, his two long-loved addictions.  

Playing the horn and waterskiing. 

Waves of sound and water, 

his opiates, his oxygen.  

I dream about being fat, deaf, blind, having one arm. I’ve thought, “Why couldn’t I just be blind and have that be my hell.” Not to belittle the horror of blindness, but at least I wouldn’t be getting worse every day. 

Always found,

reason to push through. 

Maybe after the playoffs. See how the Blazers do.   

The worst part is you can’t move any part of your body. A bug is crawling up your leg. You’ve had that itchy, creepy feeling a million times. Normally you’d swat it away, but now it’s a major ordeal. Your imagination runs wild about where it might go.

Early June, he reveals he wants to end it. 

Knows the day – June 21, 

summer solstice, 

sundown. 

Seems natural to

leave when the season changes.   

I can’t be funny anymore. So much of humor is timing, and by the time I get it out it’s not that funny anymore. Just another thing to give up. It’s like slowly I’m giving up everything I ever valued in life. However, I am replacing it with one very important thing, love. I’ve really learned how much I love and need close friends. 

He’s sure of his decision.  

Dead certain he winks.  

Now in constant 

pain, even on 

morphine.  

Tears spill as he spells, 

“It is time to stop singing this song.”  

I am now losing my ability to swallow. It’s sort of like drowning every day. Usually on water, cold clear Oregon water, god how I love it.

He begins to pare down, parse life, 

finalize his last words. 

How will he end 

this lifelong 

conga 

line?        

The subject for today is envy. I have been feeling a lot of that lately. I especially envy old people. I wonder if they realize how lucky they are. I know I should be thankful for what I’ve had, but it’s hard. 

He steadily blinks 

goodbye messages to family

and friends the week before departure.  

On the last day of the sun crossing the sky, he lies back. 

People arrive to bid bon voyage. Some don’t leave. 

From near and far, phone calls fly in 

and land on top of each other.   

Standing on his chest, 

examining his face, 

his beloved Ella. 

They stare 

at each 

other for 

long minutes. 

People whisper, 

never has the cat done that.  

Sun sinking through a window, 

a small flock of hearts nest around his bed. 

He begins his final sentence. People hush, lean in.   

“I   w-a-n-t   e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e   h-e-r-e…”

Some try to finish his thought 

so he won’t have to 

spell it out. 

To love each other? 

Take care of one another?  

“t-o   l-e-a-r-n…”

Learn patience? Forgiveness?  

“t-o   w-a-t…” 

Watch out for each other? 

“e-r-s-k-i.” 

A startled silence, 

followed by a tsunami of laughter.  

At 9:45 pm 

an IV sedates him 

and his ventilator is removed. 

Those circled around sing low – oh happy day,

oh happy day … then follow with Amazing Grace. 

The doc listens to Richard’s heart. Checks his pupils. 

Confirms. Richard Burdell has left the planet. 

Cheers, tears, hugs combust into song,

When The Saints Go Marching In, 

everyone joining together, 

swaying side by side, 

gliding across

water.    

Postscript: 

Portland jazz musician Richard Burdell was diagnosed with ALS at the age of 34. Doctors gave him two years at most. He died June 21, 1998 at the age of 48. 

Sources:  

Journals of Richard Burdell
Oregonian feature by Margie Boulé  June 28, 1998
Cindy Burdell