To Pronouce
"Oh, she died," this resident was always smiling, "Yeah."
I knew she'd been terribly sick and dying. I just hadn't heard that it had happened. Forty-two years old. Metestatic pancreatic cancer. Eleven-year old daughter. Husband. Parents. She'd been in pain for months and experienceing what we technically call "mental status changes" for the past couple weeks. What it means is that her brain has left; it can no longer make sense of this life or her diseased body which clings to its command center to tell the lungs to breath and heart to beat despite the pain in every mangled fiber.
Mental status changes. My new patient today has them too. He has not awoken yet from the intubation (tube down his throat) and sedation he got in the ER where they treated him first before admitting him to the intensive care unit. His body is covered in the bruises he gave himself as his mind raged against the bacteria in the fluid around his brain and spinal cord. His wife sits at his side and holds his hand.
"Oh, she died." I was giving sign out to another intern. We both paused. All three of us paused, to recognize the passing of the mother and wife and daughter and friend. "Yeah," she explained, "we extubated her after we started the morphine drip. They called me to pronounce her about an hour ago." "Oh," I repeat dumbly. And the other intern draws a straight line through her information on the sign out. "Flatline," she says, trying to be humane despite the three patients she has just admitted but has not yet been able to see or examine.
Pronouce. Another odd ritual. "I pronouce you dead." "I pronouce you husband and wife." "I pronouce you born." Pretty presumptive this pronoucing business.
Do I also pronouce your love, your happiness, your bare feet in warm sand, your quiet teenage moments when ideas fly toward you faster than you can catch them? I pronouce you joy. If I could I would. Pronouce blessings into the corners of your existance until you are filled with the gratitude of this "precious life."
But that if for you to pronouce.
You pronouce you alive.
I listen for silence in your chest when your breath has flown for the last time.
I pronouce you dead.
I knew she'd been terribly sick and dying. I just hadn't heard that it had happened. Forty-two years old. Metestatic pancreatic cancer. Eleven-year old daughter. Husband. Parents. She'd been in pain for months and experienceing what we technically call "mental status changes" for the past couple weeks. What it means is that her brain has left; it can no longer make sense of this life or her diseased body which clings to its command center to tell the lungs to breath and heart to beat despite the pain in every mangled fiber.
Mental status changes. My new patient today has them too. He has not awoken yet from the intubation (tube down his throat) and sedation he got in the ER where they treated him first before admitting him to the intensive care unit. His body is covered in the bruises he gave himself as his mind raged against the bacteria in the fluid around his brain and spinal cord. His wife sits at his side and holds his hand.
"Oh, she died." I was giving sign out to another intern. We both paused. All three of us paused, to recognize the passing of the mother and wife and daughter and friend. "Yeah," she explained, "we extubated her after we started the morphine drip. They called me to pronounce her about an hour ago." "Oh," I repeat dumbly. And the other intern draws a straight line through her information on the sign out. "Flatline," she says, trying to be humane despite the three patients she has just admitted but has not yet been able to see or examine.
Pronouce. Another odd ritual. "I pronouce you dead." "I pronouce you husband and wife." "I pronouce you born." Pretty presumptive this pronoucing business.
Do I also pronouce your love, your happiness, your bare feet in warm sand, your quiet teenage moments when ideas fly toward you faster than you can catch them? I pronouce you joy. If I could I would. Pronouce blessings into the corners of your existance until you are filled with the gratitude of this "precious life."
But that if for you to pronouce.
You pronouce you alive.
I listen for silence in your chest when your breath has flown for the last time.
I pronouce you dead.
posted by S. at 8:41 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home