Her Thing

Same Walk, Different Shoes.

“Same Walk, Different Shoes” is a community writing project thatBen Wakemanorganized as a practical exercise in empathy. The premise is simple. A group of writers anonymously contribute a personal story of an experience that changed their life. Each participating writer is randomly assigned one of these story prompts to turn into a short story written from the first-person point of view. The story you are about to read is one from this collection. You can find all the stories from the participating writers at Catch & Release. Enjoy the walk with us.

In case you want to listen to an accompanying original score: Here is something distantly dissonant, a little sad and a little hopeful, turn the volume low and press play.

Her Thing

I've been trying to let my Mother die for the last 48 hours. They tell me they can keep her going indefinitely but I know it's not what she wants. Not that she ever has wants. They're more like unstated expectations. To do the right thing. The kind thing. The honest truth and no other kind of truth. And it would be easier to fall short if she didn't exactly live this way—truth is, I don't. It's exhausting and I don't know how she did it. 

But what's more tiring is figuring out how to let her go—how to uncouple her from the tangle of machines that are keeping her alive. Apparently, it's not as easy as pulling a plug. 

"What's this one?' I asked the Virtual Room Attendant, pointing to a peach-colored box with a couple of tubes running into Mother's neck.

"This one is the NNI—Neural Network Interface, it connects her brain directly to a digital network. It works by interfacing with the brain's neural circuits, allowing for bidirectional communication between the brain and digital systems," explains the floating head projection.

"Hrmpt Ok, thanks, so what is this one? Will any of these help her regain consciousness?" Now pointing at an array of silicon bags set into a transparent box connected to an intravenous port in her arm. I take a step closer and hold her foot like I'm trying to give her some human connection to balance things out.

"No, not directly, but they will keep her body working perfectly, in case she does," says the attendant, employing a soft, optimistic tone, "this one is the Immune System Augmentation Unit. It helps prevent any infections and diseases."

The hospital report says that her emergency bracelet went off after a fall and when the paramedics arrived at her place, she was already unconscious. Once she got here, they hooked her up without knowing anything about her DNR request. This was standard procedure they told me and that if I wished to unsubscribe from the Life Extension Therapy protocols I'd have to start that process with the Ethics Panel and Insurance Companies through the Administration.

She looked peacefully uncomfortable and I felt okay about that for a minute. It was all wrong though. She wouldn't stand for it. She said life was for living—and I'm pretty sure she'd say this didn't qualify. This was some liminal existence propped up by nanotechnology and cortex-stimulating algorithms.

"It's not ideal, but at least she's alive," said my brother, staring at a machine pumping air into her lungs.

"She wouldn't call this alive," I told him, "this is as close to dead as you can get"

"You talked with the Administration yet?" He said it with more than a little salt. My brother never bought into the Comfort Care Only idea even though we all agreed and promised her we'd respect her wishes.

"Not yet, not really, I came here and saw this. It's going to be more complicated than we thought."

I saw her eyelids twitch. Annoyed at the prospect of dealing with the bureaucracy. 

Blue and green LEDs reflected in my brother's glasses. We watched her close and quiet for a while. Cradled in a nest of automated life-sustaining care, maybe we should just leave things like this. Just for a bit. Maybe she'd come to. My brother was convincing, but I knew it was selfish. These concessions only made us feel better.

We'd had a great couple of years since her diagnosis. It was eventful and poignant, full of all the experiences you might want when you knew your time was limited. And invariably, after a walk in the park, or a visit from the grandchildren, she'd grab my wrist and just look into me—like she was imprinting some sacred codex into my head. She didn't even have to say anything, I knew she was only trying to secure her fate.

Not sure she counted on being shuttled into this place though. Hundreds of units per floor and at least twenty stories, there were thousands of life support pods just like this one. All enthusiastically run by bots and the Department of Medical Intelligence, it was a soulless, albeit competent place. It hummed with ignorant efficiency. Even the ethics panel was contrived of super intelligences adept at tree of thought analysis and empathetic emulation. I wasn't looking forward to any of it. The Administration is creepy. It's all faces, mouths and eyebrows, just barely poking out of the uncanny valley, it was hard to tell who was real and who wasn't.

Over the next couple of days, my brother stayed with her while I took meetings from the video kiosk in the lobby. I had all the authentications, my Mother's living will, and her insurance agreements, but it was still a series of rigorous interviews, across multiple committees, just to make any progress if that's what you could call it. It felt like one step forward and a few steps back at every turn. However, they assured me along the way that everything would get sorted and Mother's end-of-life wishes would be permissible. I couldn't help but feel like they were making it as hard as possible to let her go.

I had to talk with patent holders at drug companies more concerned about the misuse of their proprietary intellectual property.

And the tech companies were not keen on discontinuing any valuable data collection.

"Don't give up hope," said one of the insurance company lawyers. And I told him that my Mother had hoped I would let her rest when the time came.

I really tried to channel her strength and dignity, her good humor and sensibility, but I'd be lying if I didn't say that it all felt cruel and futile.

Eventually, the machines started disappearing one by one. Bots would roll in and disengage Mother from some pastel piece of hardware. They'd carefully package up all the wires, tubes, electrodes and bio-interface components and cart them off. The room got darker and quieter. And I might have thought that the disassembly of life was eerie and sad, but it started to feel good. It was a relief. Finally, I could see Mother, as she wanted to be seen. Unencumbered by the responsibility of a future that may never come. Free from the expectations of a life unfinished. 

Even my brother found the aura of peace surrounding her comforting in some way. You could feel it in the room—some stoic presence. We sat closer and watched the barely visible undulation of her chest. There was only one device left.

"What's this one for? Are they coming to take this one too?" I asked, petting the smooth baby blue enclosure like I was going to miss it one day.

"This is her Serenity Module, it will keep your Mother comfortable and free of any physical or mental disturbances." says the attendant, shimmering over the bed like a wraith, "This one stays."

So we sat with her, each holding a hand, knowing we were part of something important. A part of her. Doing the right thing. Her thing.