Jangsu’s fits were now at their peak. He shouted and contorted his body without rest, bouncing up and down in the bed like a shaman possessed by spirits. But even as he was causing the commotion, his eyes were fixed on a certain spot in the air. Someone invisible to us was beating him, and it looked as if he were trying, with all his might, to resist that unbearable pain.
We watched the fits absentmindedly. We were the ones who used to drain copious amounts of makgeolli at the old Mama’s House. Now we were an insurance agent, a graduate student, and a magazine reporter, but we were the ones who remembered Jangsu. With time so short, I had hastily summoned them, and they’d made excuses on the phone—too much drinking the previous night, lack of sleep—but they’d eventually shown up, their eyes still puffy.
“As I said before,” the doctor said, “I think it’s best to take him home now. There’s nothing the hospital can do for him. All that’s left is the vigil, and that should be at home, don’t you think?”
“Isn’t there some way to at least calm him down? Like, maybe giving him a shot?”
“I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be cruel to go so far as to anesthetize a patient in that condition just to stop his fits?”
“Cruel? What about chasing such a patient out of the hospital? That would hardly be a compassionate thing to do.”
“The patient’s fate would be the same anyway,” the doctor said, “whether he’s in the hospital or at home. From a medical perspective, we’ve tried our best and there’s nothing else we can do. There’s no point in him staying here in the hospital. The hospital might as well be the side of a road.”
“How long will those fits last? Until he’s dead?”
“Normally, they would have stopped by now, but he’s on the stubborn side. These types of patients tend to cause problems later, too. When the fits stop, he’ll fall asleep, and he’ll slowly pass away in his sleep. Very slowly. The stubborn ones drag it out just hanging on. Watch. It will be exhausting.”
“Well, regardless, you’ll have to take care of him in the hospital until the end. We have nowhere to go.”
“Look, the problem is his shouting. It’s bothering the other patients. The patient next door is scheduled for surgery tomorrow, and he’s terribly stressed because he can’t get any sleep. As you know, peace and quiet are crucial before surgery…. Isn’t there some way you could contact the patient’s family?”
“Even if we could reach them, it’s too late now. Truth is, we don’t know his family situation well, either. About all we know is he’s from somewhere in the countryside in Jeolla-do, and he had an elderly mother who passed away recently…and he’s cut all ties with his hometown.”
“Do you know what the folks back home say about me?” Jangsu said. “They say I’m possessed by a communist ghost. My father died before I was born. Like father like son, they say.”
It was turning light outside the window. Behind the gloomy hospital building, the city was stirring, waking from its sleep. The blood-red glow of dawn hung in the distance, foreshadowing the heat of the day to come.
“We’ve been forced to take on a difficult burden.”
The insurance agent clicked his tongue.
“I have to travel all the way to Busan—today.”
“What are you talking about?” the graduate student said. “This is called friendship, not a burden.”
“I thought that way, too, at first. When we agreed to hospitalize him and split the cost, it was a burden, but I thought our past friendship could handle it. That I’d be able to give up my business trip. If I called in sick, someone else would probably go. But now we’re stuck with taking care of his death. I didn’t want Jangsu’s death to become my responsibility.”
Because what he said was true, we didn’t have a reply.
Just then, the nurse exclaimed, “Oh, no! What do we do? Come look at this.”
She pointed at Jangsu, who was wrapped in a white sheet. The area around his groin was turning dark and wet. He had suddenly become very quiet. We gathered around the bed with bated breath, as if we were viewing some spectacle, and watched the wetness spread across the sheet.
The nurse groaned. “He’s peeing,” she said in a hushed voice.
“What’s the fuss?” the doctor said. “Is this your first time seeing someone piss?” But he, too, couldn’t take his eyes off the sheet, which was quickly soaked. “The fits have finally stopped,” he explained. “Look—he’s quiet, isn’t he?
“Usually, liver cirrhosis is a condition that interferes with normal urination. That’s why patients suffer so much. But you see how strong the flow is now? That’s the last sign. His autonomic nervous system is paralyzed, and it’s just leaking out. There are some who cry because they can’t urinate, so, in a way, his wish is being fulfilled. He can just let loose like that. It’s a shame he can’t feel that release, since he’s unconscious.”
But to us it looked as though Jangsu was enjoying the feeling of release. He was unbelievably calm now, with a satisfied grin on his face. The way he was snoring softly—as if dreaming a sweet dream—could not have seemed more peaceful.
“This is the beginning of his long sleep,” the doctor said quietly.