Dead People Don't Look Amused

 By: Alissa Kiedrowski

“It’s too late.” The doctor looked sadly at the man lying on the bed in front of him.

“Time of death, 3:16 p.m.” He raised his hand to dismiss the team who had been working madly to try to save the man’s life.

The doctor paused over the man for a moment, the same way he had paused with all the others over the years. His medical team knew this was his way. They never questioned his reasons; they never asked why. They silently exited the room as he called time of death. Some thought he wanted a moment alone to say a quick prayer for the soul of the deceased or for their family. Some thought his motives were more selfish, a few stolen moments of silence to appease his bruised ego, to attempt to show good sportsmanship over his loss in the contest against death. Even though death always won in the end, the doctor was arrogant enough to think he deserved to win most of the time.

 

But his actual purpose was even more bizarre. He kept a journal of each patient he lost. It was a mental journal, since he’d surely lose his license if he’d kept it on paper or electronically. He would capture their name, first and last, why they died and how he felt about it. He started it after the very first patient he’d lost, many years ago when he had just begun his practice. His mentor at the time had stood beside him that first day. “Pay attention to the ones you lose,” the older doctor said to the younger one. “You’ll see thousands of patients in your lifetime, but you’ll only lose a few. These are the ones you should remember. They take from your life as you take theirs.”

And so, the young doctor did. He noted each death under his care with the same mindfulness. Each was a simple gesture in the moment, but the task grew more onerous with each entry into this somber journal of death he carried with him.

It was a heavy load, this intentional work to notice this person in the chaos of a busy hospital; to pause and go slowly when the whole world says to speed on to the next priority; to spend this time on a silly idea that would never make him more respected or wealthier.

But there was something different about today’s patient, though he couldn’t quite articulate what it was at first. The patient looked like so many he’d seen, the same neglected physique, the same pasty white skin, the same big belly, a guaranteed express ticket out of here, whether by heart attack or stroke or one of the other killers of the Western world.

 

And then he saw it; those brown eyes didn’t look dead. They looked like they were laughing, as if the man had cheated death and escaped into something more humorous than life here on earth.

They were alone together in the exam room, the man who lay on the table and the man who stood next to him, amazed at what looked like a smirk on the man’s face. The doctor knew well the mask of death: it was hollow, quiet, still. The doctor stood frozen because death could be many things, from shockingly sad to bone crushing infuriating to deafeningly peaceful. But never, not once, had it ever looked funny. Dead people weren’t supposed to look this amused.

  

The doctor reviewed the records. There was nothing extraordinary about this man or his death. He’d had a stroke, a massive brain bleed caused by a life of too much. Too much stress and too many cheeseburgers, by the look of it.

 

Nothing funny about a cheeseburger-fueled stroke to cut off the trips to Boca Raton and time with the grandkids. But as he looked up from the monitor and back at the lifeless man, the doctor saw the smirk had spread from the man’s eyes to his mouth. The corners were turning up now, in the same bemused way. The corners of his mouth were matching the corners of his eyes, laughter in sheer defiance of the solemnity of death.

 

Unnerved, the doctor stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the bed and accidentally dislodging the man’s arm from where it had rested by his side. The arm slid from the side of the bed, the force of gravity nudging it into a slow, gentle swinging motion, fingers pointed to the floor. As the doctor gently lifted the escaped arm to return it to its place next to the man’s body, he noticed the index finger pointing at him.

 

He stepped back in fright. The man’s eyes twinkled with merriment, the mouth stretched in a garish smile and that finger still pointed at him. The doctor shook his head and looked at his watch, wondering when he had last eaten. Perhaps it was hunger or exhaustion that was playing tricks on his mind.

 

And then he heard it. Something was wrong with the ventilation in the room. Instead of the gentle hum of continuously circulating fresh air, the system was glitching. The whooshing started and stopped, growing louder with each breath. Giggle. Guffaw.

 

The laughter was getting louder now, drowning out everything else. It was as if death was laughing at him, using parlor tricks to mock him, to torment his better judgment.

Then a colleague appeared, an old friend who’d meet him for a bourbon on Thursday nights. His friend looked concerned as he peered into the doctor’s eyes. He gently touched the doctor’s neck, then bowed his head and said a short prayer.

 

“It’s too late. Time of death: 3:16.”

Alissa Kiedrowski is a storyteller who lives near a lake in Wisconsin. Her work has been published in Creative Wisconsin Magazine and was honored at the 2023 Lakefly Writing Contest. She is a member of the Wisconsin Writer's Association.