Last Breath
He looked out the window from his bed, watching the Taillows fly around his window—possibly building a nest above.
He sighed as he looked over at a machine taking his vital signs and blood pressure. An oxygen tank clicked and chirped as it pumped air into his lungs.
He didn't imagine his life ending like this—tied to technology to keep him alive.
She entered the room, carrying a lunch tray for him to eat. Her soft brown eyes looked on with worry as he motioned for her to enter.
She set the tray on his lap and lifted the silver lid to reveal a turkey croissant sandwich with vegetable noodle soup. He wasn't exactly sure if he had the appetite for such a meal that she had prepared for him.
"Thank you, Delia," he said, smiling.
"Anything else I can get you, Sam?" she asked.
"No, this is fine."
Delia... she was a sweet woman. Mothering was definitely in her nature, and she took care of everything well. Like a breath of life into ashes, creating a phoenix from those ashes.
Nature and nurture defined her, her being and soul.
She was like the goddess Aphrodite in his eyes, and here she was doing what she had done best.
He picked at the sandwich and took little bites at a time. Each bite tasted like metal in his mouth.
He only could finish half, and he could see the worry growing more and more evident on her delicate face.
Delia had been coming every day to be with him. He had no hospice care—with all the money he had, he could afford one—but she had voluntarily chosen to be there with him. He was her teacher and the one who took her son under his wing—guiding him and giving him information whenever he needed it.
Gary and May had come by every so often to see their grandfather tied to the bed. He had watched them and heard them with lidded eyes, in that state between dreaming and wakefulness, as they had spoken with Delia one afternoon.
"I don't understand. He was so healthy," Gary said. "Gramps can't die like this."
"There's nothing they can do. It's already a stage four," Delia said.
"Isn't there a donor—can't we be donors since we're family?" May asked.
"The doctor said there was nothing else that could be done…"
"This can't be happening. It's all just a bad dream," Gary mumbled, his eyes becoming glassy with tears.
He ached for all of them as he drifted into sleep.
He looked at her and smiled, lifting the tray off of his lap.
Delia jumped up. "Finished already? But you haven't touched your soup—"
"I can't really eat much, my dear," he replied.
Delia nodded as she exited the room, carrying the tray back to the kitchen.
She came back and sat near his bedside. Sighing softly, she reached out and grabbed his hand. Sam squeezed her hand in response to her touch.
He lied back in his bed, shutting his eyes and thinking of happier times.
There was countless times he had dreamt of touching her, feeling the softness of her skin and her humming a song to him as he was half asleep. It was comforting to have her here, better than having a Nurse Joy poking him with needles.
He would often also dream about kissing her soft lips, confessing his love for her. Telling her how beautiful she was.
Now he was down to his last days of spending time with her. He didn't know how much time he had left.
He laid in bed listening to the chirping noises of the oxygen tank click. He opened his eyes and saw she was gone. She must've gone home… he thought.
He closed his eyes again and imagined himself standing with her in a field, touching her face and his fingertips at her lips. She was beautiful, like an angel.
He could imagine her smile, her brown eyes lighting up with happiness as he held her in his strong arms.
"I love you," he whispered to her. How he longed to tell her those three words.
He opened his eyes and realized morning had come. She was at his bedside again with breakfast.
He looked down at his food. This time he could barely touch it. Tears were streaming down his face as he pushed the tray off his lap.
She sat by him and put his head close to her chest, close enough for him to hear her heart beat.
"It's all right, Sam, it's all right," she said soothingly, her hands brushing his hair.
"Take me outside, Delia," he said.
Delia nodded as she got his wheelchair ready. Sam settled back into it and sighed. She placed a blanket on his lap as she pulled the door open. They ventured outside. Sam tried to inhale the fresh air through his nose tubes, but the oxygen tank won.
He coughed as he tried to catch his breath.
She pushed him along the waterfront. The wheelchair bounced as it went over the boardwalk and he smiled. At least he was happy to be out and not stuck in bed all day…slowly dying.
Delia led him from the boardwalk to the lake, and there they fed the Farfetch'd. Watching them nibbling on pieces of bread, Sam smiled.
Whenever they appeared in public together those countless times, he would want to do something to her. Nothing lewd or even noticeable. Just a soft brushing against her, gently touching her hand, the simplest gesture that a gentleman could do.
He never could imagine loving her, not like this.
Though the best he had always done, the best he could do now, was reunite her with her son.
That was meaningful enough.
When they would return home, he would spend countless hours writing how much he loved her. How happy they could be together…obsessing, even though it wasn't in his nature to do so.
He would fall asleep at his desk writing, then awaken in the morning to find papers scattered about.
He would ask himself the question over and over: Did she notice? He wasn't sure and he didn't want to find out just yet.
All he longed for was her touch, her warmth.
She had to know.
Aphrodite, don't leave me… he thought, shutting his eyes. She touched his withering face; a face that revealed age and wisdom, but sadly death was knocking on his door, begging to come in.
"I'm going to go home for the night, Sam. I will be back in the morning—"
"No, please, stay with me." He mustered enough courage to get those words out, and his face turned a light pink.
Her face lit up, and she nodded. "I can stay if you'd like…"
"Yes," he whispered, holding her hand in his.
"Delia, there's something I must tell you…" he began.
"What is it?" She looked at him intently.
He exhaled and squeezed her hand tightly. "Delia, ever since you came to Pallet Town, I have always been mesmerized by your beauty…"
She blinked and was silent for a moment.
"And this may not be the best time to tell you, but I am…"
"I-I love you."
"Sam, why would you tell me this now? On your death bed?"
"I didn't want rumors spread about us, Delia—"
"I don't care about rumors—we were already being talked about anyway!"
"Delia, I'm—"
He stopped suddenly as a sharp pain shot in his chest. He lurched forward, grabbing his shirt, and he cried out.
"Sam!" Delia cried. "No, not now!"
He fell back into his bed, his vital signs going off the charts. The beeping from the machines was deafening.
Delia rushed to get the phone, "Hello? Yes, I would like to report an emergency at the Oak residence. Professor Oak is having a heart attack! Come quickly, please!"
She dropped the phone as she appeared at his bedside again and she grabbed his hand. He groaned in pain as he lay there.
"Ugh, Delia—I'm so sorry—I couldn't tell you sooner!"
"They're on their way, Sam, please hang on!"
Darkness engulfed his vision as his eyes began to roll in the back of his head. Delia shook him madly. "No, damn it! You stay with me! Don't leave me!"
"I love you…Delia…"