|
Looking down at my shoes
In a rare moment that I get to sit,
I see blood spattered on my shoelaces,
And I find myself trying to recall
Whose it is.
I know it was from one of the codes…
I'm just not sure which one.
Staring at my shoes, head propped on my bent knees
My aching muscles recall the tearing pain in my back
After what seemed an eternity of compressions…
…being acutely aware that this human beings' chest
I was pumping so hard
Has a wife, children, parents, and friends
Who love him.
I recall watching the monitor to make certain my compressions
Were effective…the man was very large and heavy
And my small hands seemed suddenly inadequate to me…
So, I pushed with my whole body.
Every time the doc said "Hold compressions", my own pump
Pounded as I scrutinized that indifferent screen
Hoping against hope that the tightly wavy line
Would suddenly spark into a rhythm we could work with.
Only it didn't happen.
We all did our parts well and thoroughly;
A tense, well-oiled machine.
We all invested so much of ourselves
Into this stranger.
Once, for a very brief time, we got him back;
I rushed to get his wife, fearing this might be the last time she
Would see him breathing.
I wanted her to have the chance to say some of those things
We usually leave until too late…
…to tell him how she loves him and needs him;
that she wants him to live, and continue the good life they
have shared.
I figured he needed to hear that as much as he needed
Dopamine, lidocaine and my desperate compressions.
She entered the room and looked at him there,
And her poor face just sort of crumpled.
(The look on their faces is always the same… they see the ventilator, the suction, the monitor and NG tube, the IV pumps,
and then they see their loved one
And are utterly awash in helplessness and raging disbelief…)
She took his pale cold hand from the bed, and held it up
To her cheek, and wept racking sobs
Into his still fingers.
I could not see, for a minute, to hand her tissues
So I just stood with my arm around her.
She looked so frail and broken
Standing there looking down at him
She knew.
She left the room, already aware of her loss,
And for a moment, I was unclear who needed me most,
The one in the bed, or the one walking away from it.
It is in the Heart of God, this dying thing.
(I just sometimes wish He would let me in on the outcome more
often, or just harden my heart so that all this death doesn't haunt me.)
|
|
