We thought the old man wouldn’t make it. Not after putting him in a coma for three weeks. Three weeks, he lay flat on his stomach, three pillows underneath to force an incline and a wheezing ventilator pushing air into the ringed tube we threaded into his lungs.
He needed a shave but who had the time? I was between four sometimes five patients at once. Between the coughing and the endless bags of saline, and me holding my pee sometimes for eight hours straight, I didn’t know if to scream or weep. I’m ashamed to say it but sometimes I did both.
Most days it was too much. And then there were days that just broke us. When two, maybe three patients would code. Their hearts would flutter, then their lungs would collapse without warning. And sometimes there was nothing to do but hold their hands and watch as their eyes opened wide with fright. With horror. With knowing that we’d failed them. And there was nothing, we could do except hold them as close as we dared. Horrified that our broken hearts and eyes would be the last things they would see on this side of the light.
It kills me to watch them go. I will never get past this. Every soul a blessing, every empty body leaving behind a burden for us to bear…
