Background: I wrote this poem after hearing that a patient on my vascular surgery rotation that I had rounded on for a few days had passed. As I reflected on this, an almost idiotically simple refrain kept repeating in my head, and this poem naturally sprung from it later in the day. I found writing and editing the poem to be a useful way to explore my emotions regarding her passing. [Identifiable patient information changed for confidentiality]
“Mrs. Jackson seemed like a very nice woman.”
The simple thought echoes in my mind as I wander the halls of Presby,
Processing the news from my chief resident,
That she had died an hour ago.
Mrs. Jackson seemed like a very nice woman,
Though we didn’t talk much.
Just two minutes a day on rounds,
But when I waved to her and nervously whispered comforting thoughts,
She squinted her eyes in acknowledgement and appreciation.
Mrs. Jackson seemed like a very nice woman,
So I wonder why her surgery had to have so many complications.
Piles of progress notes attest to a downpour of diagnoses:
Sepsis, heart failure, hemorrhagic pancreatitis, C. diff,
I can barely remember the list,
Nor can I imagine the suffering of her final days.
Mrs. Jackson seemed like a very nice woman,
And she raised very nice daughters.
She had five who loved her very much,
So much that they wanted to limit her suffering,
And agreed with the team to transition her to comfort care.
Mrs. Jackson seemed like a very nice woman,
But even nice people need medications,
And when the orders came the next day to stop her pressors,
She excused herself from the world,
With an abruptness that almost seemed rude.
Mrs. Jackson seemed like a very nice woman,
But as I walk past her room in the TSICU,
And see her naked, pale body on the bed,
I mourn her not-so-nice end,
And ask myself why this virtual stranger’s death,
Has made me so pensive.
Mrs. Jackson seemed like a very nice woman,
And as I sit down and scroll through her notes on Epic,
Notes that crescendo into a wail of sickness,
That unceremoniously cuts off with the final, grave pronouncement of death,
I say a prayer for her,
For her family,
And for the healthcare workers who cared for her.
I remember her on rounds that same morning,
Her face occluded by a BiPAP and suddenly less responsive to my messages,
Wondering if she knew the end was near.
And as I ponder her final days,
Not overstating her meaning to me,
Nor forgetting her life,
Not wanting to romanticize my friendship of only four days,
Nor to minimize the impact she had on me,
And the far greater impact she must have had on others,
I take a deep breath and utter a final eulogy:
“Mrs. Jackson seemed like a very nice woman.”
Victor Ayeni is an MS4 at the Perelman School of Medicine.
