Joe pushed harder against the bed railing with his untrustworthy toes. He had diagonaled his body across the hospital bed, scrunching himself over to where he could just about reach the bed controls. Now, he just needed to get his hands to work well enough to hold down the button to raise his head.

The hospice room was lit by golden sunshine. Joe, who had been staring at the tiny holes in the drop ceiling for what seemed like forever, did not want to miss seeing it in its full glory.

He just needed to raise the head of the bed, and he would be able to look out the window. Of course, the tumor on his brain was making the once-simple task far more challenging than it needed to be.

His fingers fumbled against the cool plastic, trying to find the rubbery feel of the bed controls. Frustration at his physical failings mounted, but Joe buried those feelings quickly. As ridiculous as it was for pushing a button to be such a herculean effort, he knew he couldn’t let it get to him. If he let the aggravation take hold, it would only worsen his tremors.

That path would leave him stuck counting the holes in the ceiling tiles again.

He focused and lifted his leaden arm once more.

The array of tubes and wires was not helping. The line that supplied him with his meds was tangled in the sheets, causing small pricks of pain from the sticky tape and sharp needle. Even worse was the urinary catheter, which had reached the end of its slack; it was now pulling uncomfortably on his groin.

All these small hurts were easy for him to block out. They were nothing compared to the constant torture inflicted by the growing tumorous rock inside his skull. If he could withstand that pain every day, the sting of pulling tape was nothing.

His stubborn determination told him all this effort would be worth it, and so Joe fought on. Just one chance to look outside again.

Even though he was already sweating from the exertion, he knew he was close.

His fingers finally found the trigger to raise the head of the bed/ With a hum, his perspective began to change. He could now see on top of the bedside table again. A picture of smiling faces greeted him, causing a wide grin to pull up the corners of his cracked lips. The bright-eyed Zoe was towered over by a joyous Mia while the goofball, Ripple, had his tongue flopped out of the side of his mouth. For the thousandth time, Joe wished that this level of the hospice center allowed dogs. He would give almost anything for one more furry hug or a sloppy kiss from his boy and girls.

An uncomfortable tugging on his bald scalp began to pull his head sideways. Joe had agreed to allow the Cancer Institute to monitor his brain during these last days. They hoped to uncover some insights into how this type of tumor affected brain functions. Joe didn’t mind wearing the sticky net. He was barely aware of much more often than not lately. On his good days, when he was able to focus, the cool wires actually felt good against his bald scalp.

Today was one of those good days. He could think today. The sun was shining brightly. He missed the outdoors, so even a good look at it was worth all this struggle. Before he passed on, he wanted to see trees and sky one more time.

Feeling a bit guilty for messing up their data, Joe pushed the control button again and felt something pop off his head. Which, of course, sounded the damn alarms.

Cora must have been right outside at the nurse’s station. She bustled into the room a second after the medical alert sounded.

“Joe? What’re you doing? Wait. Let me help you,” the dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties declared.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

He probably should have just asked for help in the first place, but his voice had joined the rest of his body’s rebellion against him. In his head, he thought, “Heya, Cora. Sorry. I just wanted to look out the window, but the whole process turned out to be more of an ordeal than I expected.”

What actually emerged was the single slurred word, “window.”

The nurse turned toward the large glowing pane of glass before looking back at him with a bright smile. Cora was a sweetheart. Joe couldn’t understand how she could look after so many patients on their very worst days and yet never run out of her constant warmth and care.

“It sure is a gorgeous fall day out there, isn’t it, young man,” she exclaimed. “Hold on, Hon. Let me get your lines and leads untangled. And some more pillows, too. Then you’ll be able to look out for as long as you want.”

They both knew that was not actually true. Joe could happily watch the world go by for months, but he didn't have months. His time to do anything was almost up.

Still, he understood what she meant. The staff at Grace Meadows had helped him realize that part of hospice care was not dwelling on his end of days. It was about making the best out of what little time he had left.

In minutes, Cora and Dave, who she paged for help, had everything straightened out again and moved his bed up the glass. Joe was on the third floor of the hospice center, the one reserved for the most terminal patients. As ominous as his latest accommodations were, he couldn’t complain about the spectacular view from his room. A decent-sized lawn was surrounded by a couple dozen maple trees, each doing their damnest to outdo one another. Bright yellows and oranges were gorgeous to behold, but two of the trees, dressed in ruby reds, really stole the show.

People in coats walked the paths or sat on one of the many benches. Some folks sported scarves, but Joe guessed they were more for the enjoyment of the garment than needed for protection against temperature. The day seemed neither exceptionally cold nor blustery. This would have been a perfect day to take the pups out for a long walk.

At some point, he realized that Dave and Cora had left, and he felt bad that he had not thanked them for this gift. It was strange how much these simple acts of care meant to him.

Gazing out at the world beyond the glass, Joe wished he could go and find out what was past the ring of colorful trees. Once upon a time, he wouldn’t have stopped on the lawn; he’d let his wanderlust carry him over the next hill and beyond. He had thought one day, he would have a chance to explore the world.

Yet that had not been in the cards. He had a few years of college before he had to return home and take care of his family. By the time they had passed, his health had begun to fail as well. The state had learned of the environmental contamination too late for Joe. Now, in the care of the Grace Meadows Hospice Center, Joe could only let his imagination take him to the places of wonder his body would never be able to reach.

For hours, Joe studied the people below, though he was pretty sure he nodded off more than once. Watching people was one of his favorite activities anyway. He loved guessing what they were thinking and doing.

Joe opened his eyes and realized he must have dozed off again. The sun was heading down out of the sky. The number of folks below had dwindled to just four, and they were on the move, not sitting on the benches.

As Joe watched them hustle along the paths, he felt something detach. He had the strangest feeling; it was as if he was floating. Like an unmoored boat, he was drifting away from the dock.

It was finally time. Time to say goodbye. He would miss Cara and the other caregivers. They were good people who had tried to make this moment easier for him.

On the other hand, there was a great deal he would be happy to be free of. He would not miss the smell of the disinfectants or the endless beeping of the monitors. He would not miss the bland food his condition restricted him to. He would not miss this defective shell he had been trapped in either. The headaches and tremors that made every day so much harder than it needed to be.

As the world began to slip away, he only had one real regret: he wished his pups were here. Just one last feel of soft fur against his skin. The sound of a loving heartbeat.

As he took his final breath on Earth, the very last thing Joe expected on the edge of expiration was a popup box.

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