Ray's Room

A small moth flits around the wall lamp above Ray’s bed. Taped onto the beige wall beneath it, a cardboard sign bears the words “Ray’s Room.” Lying on his right-hand side, where nurses had recently rolled him after changing his fouled incontinence nappy, Ray’s hollow eyes follow the flight path of the fuzzy insect. His left-hand pointer finger moves imperceptibly, almost rhythmically. Cracked lips open and close vaguely as though attempting communication with the moth. But the damage to Ray’s frontal lobe precludes speech. Somewhere within the bowels of the ward, a tormented moan cuts through the night but Ray is outwardly unmoved. He’s been here five months since his internal brain bleed; cries of utter human desolation are ambient sounds in his current environment. Admitted after other rough-sleepers found him unconscious beneath a bridge on the banks of the Brisbane River, scans suggested blunt force trauma. Like many rough-sleeping alcoholics, injuries or deaths often remain mysteries. Was it accidental, was it deliberate? If only the walls or footpaths, in dark and lonely alleys, could give voice. A voice cruelly torn from Ray.

 Ray’s lips twitch again as his hollow eyes track the moth near the lamp. Sadly, the walls can’t hear, other patients and staff don’t hear. The moth is his solitary audience. Can it know or understand what Ray is telling it?

 “Little moth, I am a prisoner in my own body. I am here. I want history to record that I existed, that I have a story. My body and muscles won’t function, but I am not an idiot. I can’t speak, but I reserve the right to dignity. I am giving you my undivided attention; you will notice that I give you the courtesy of eye contact as I speak. I don’t want to depart this life without telling my story. I have feelings and emotions that I can’t convey. I have regrets and memories, I grieve missed opportunities and losses. I celebrate and recall. I constantly recall music; I hear it even now.

 Little moth, do you see my finger moving? Can you detect a rhythm as I conduct Pachelbel’s canon in D? I am conducting a piano and a cello. No, it is not an involuntary spasm in my finger. It is a powerful baton adding weight to the intensity and exquisite crescendo of the canon. I have played the piano part on many occasions. Like others, you would not know of that, how could you? You could not have known of my classical training. You weren’t hatched when I performed on stages with my Danish cello partner. How could you have known of the crowds I played before in concert halls, or on the streets? You should have seen the stunned onlookers when I played briefly at street pianos or in railway stations. I would appear as an inconsequential passer-by, remove my backpack, saunter timidly to the piano, seat myself hesitantly, crack my knuckles, then launch confidently into the staccato notes and galloping rhythm of Mozart’s rapid paced “Turkish March.” Little moth, you should have seen the wide eyes in the crowd, heard the wild applause when I had finished that piece a few minutes later. I would fumble to retrieve my backpack then disappear anonymously through the watchers and disappear into the streetscape knowing I had given random people a few moments of joy.

 This is my legacy and just a small part of my story. I feel a warm inner glow knowing that when I am gone, little moth, another life has heard my story. You know that I was here, that I existed, that I sucked on Earth’s life-giving air, feasted on love and knowledge, made a difference.”

 The moth briefly landed on Ray’s nose before returning to the wall lamp. To Ray it was validation. It had listened. Two nights later It was still fluttering around the lamp but the sign on the wall, “Ray’s Room,” had been replaced. It now read “George’s room.”