Saturday, May 30, 2009

1123

The next day he was still alive, but barely. Barely. They'd moved him up to the 11th floor and something told me right away that he would be in the room I'd been in two years prior.

He was. I learned that his housekeeper and her daughter had come to see him that night after I'd left. She held his and and said his name, disbelievingly.

I went to see him upstairs. He was no longer responsive at all. He breathed a scant 8 times her minute with his mouth gaping open and his body arching back with each painfully deep breath. He's alone in the room. The view is the same as I stared at for days and day. The pictures are the same. No flowers for him, where I had several bunches. They've taken the night stand out, also. He has no need for it.

His bag of personal items in on the chair next to the bed. His wallet is there. I look at his drivers' license picture and he looks sad in it. Healthier, but still sad. He has the card with the mortuary on it. He's made all the arrangements and written on the back the phone number "to call in case of my death." It made me feel a little more at peace that he'd done that, for some reason. He wanted his housekeeper to have his valuables. He had a few rings and bracelets that he must have been wearing when he was brought in originally. His clothes were old, but clean and neat.

He felt warm when I held his hand again.

I went back downstairs to the rest of our sick patients. We rounded on them and saved him for last. By the time, the intern, fellow, and I got there, I looked at him from the door. No more of the gasping breaths. No more breaths. "He's gone," I said.

We walked in. I took his hand. He was still warm. Charlene pronounced his time of death. Tears rolled down my cheeks and she asked if I was okay, "It's just sad." Just sad.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home