You died today.
You died today,
And I never saw your eyes.
You died today.
Heart, stopped.
I could feel it, under my hands, as I pressed down, over and over again.
Just one of the volunteers in the line,
Keeping the blood pumping,
Until we could rule out any hope of resuscitation,
And let your body pass, just as your spirit had already done.
You died today.
Your body, an opportunity for me to practice,
For the next time.
A resident saw my face after,
And offered me juice.
He looked as shaken as I felt.
I wanted to cry,
But instead I brushed off his kind words,
(after accepting the juice).
Too shaken to let myself show the panic welling up inside,
I buried it away.
12 hours later,
On my walk out,
I wished the night team a quiet one,
Thinking randomly: “Someday, it might be nice, to see an emergency thoracotomy.”
[Never wish for a trauma]
Steps from my exit,
The loudspeaker announced your arrival.
In my excitement to learn, I ran back.
Then they rolled you in.
My heart stopped.
Your face was soft like a child’s,
Your eyes, white, rolled up in your head.
A child.
A child … was all I could think.
One wound, in your thigh,
No blood.
There wasn’t any left.
You didn’t even notice, when we ripped open your chest,
Right there, on that same table,
Your heart still beating,
And wheeled you up.
We fixed your leg.
We closed your chest.
But not before your blood has soaked through my shoes—
I threw them away.
Image by Phoebe Cunningham, an MS1 at the Perelman School of Medicine.
