e.

wednesday, 7am: night shift nurse says she's doing great. not much to report. find her writing in her journal, freshly showered, smiling. 'i'm going to publish these poems one day'. i know you are. i spend the day with her - we make small talk about the cute tennis player she likes and not-so-small talk about her transplant. she knows the routines by now... hanging antibiotics, giving blood, drawing blood, changing dressing, vital signs...she chats through it all. she has a new cough, one she barely notices but one that makes me nervous. we check it out...lungs sound fine...x-ray is normal...nothing to be done.
her parents are haggered but smiling. it's the waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop smile - their daughter's been here 2 weeks. they've just about had it.

thursday, 7am: night shift nurse reports that she was up all night coughing. she ends her report with the dreaded words 'i just don't have a good feeling about her'. i put my head down in my hands...any nurse knows you're better off hearing that your patient is swimming in her own waste than hearing that the night shift nurse 'doesn't have a good feeling'. she's been doing this for 20 years. she sees, smells, senses something bad coming and i've learned enough to be scared.
8am: find her in the pantry leaning over the counter. 'i just came to get some juice and got out of breath...i'm sure it's nothing.' i'm sure it's something. x-ray done...lungs sound bad...oxygen 2 liters.
parents arrive and are shaken. 'is she dying?' her dad asks. no. i don't think so.
10am: doctors round...they're smiling at her, as usual, but they listen extra long to her lungs and squeeze her nail beds while they're smiling at her...write two pages of new orders and head off to see her x-ray....oxygen 4 liters.
2pm: the beeping won't stop...her pulse is too high...her oxygenation is too low. we've spent the day fighting the cloudy white enemy seen on her x-ray. oxygen 6 liters.
mother rocking. father pacing. 'is she dying?' i don't know.
7pm: she has spent 12 hours getting sicker by the hour...she' s tired...too tired to breathe well...the decision is made to intubate.
parents are rocking each other. 'do you think she's going to die?' she might.
9pm: i arrive home to the innocent but dreaded question, 'honey, how was your day?' i'm able to convey 'don't ask' with just my eyes. i let the hot water rush over me...scour my skin with a cloth...hoping to exfoliate my psyche in the process...put on the softest clothes i can find...curl up on couch...take two bites of the empathy pasta that has been prepred for me...close my eyes.

friday: ...'honey you overslept...it's time to go to work.' jump up, throw on scrubs, brush teeth, grab bagel.
7am: night shift nurse says she's been stable...no better, no worse. all that stability evaporates in an instant, as often happens during report, and something changes...her heart is racing, bloodwork shows her chemistry is all wrong...too acidic...the most oxygen we can give her isn't enough...we try all our tricks to prop up her blood pressure but we fail.
her parents arrive running. 'is she dying?' yes.
6pm: and she does, but it takes all day. it takes a lot of orders....a lot of trying one more thing....a lot of swearing when that thing doesn't work...a lot of doctors pulling their hair out...a lot of running...a lot of tears...a lot of whispering 'hang in there' in her ear...a lot of nurses taking turns sitting with her parents...a lot of disbelief. it takes us transforming her into someone unrecognizable...it takes her parents saying no-please stop. and we do. we give her medicine to relax her...take the tube out of her throat...bring her parents back in. with one parent on each hand, she takes her last breaths. i try to make myself invisible but am there, armed with multiple drugs in case she wakes up...freaks out...has pain. but she doesn't. she just breathes and then she just doesn't.
9pm: stumble home. pre-empt the dreaded question with a statement...'emily died'. as the water scalds me tonight i try to decide what therapy is needed...vodka- maybe...ice cream- probably...12 hours of sleep - not gonna happen, i need to be back there in 10.

curl up on the sofa in the soft clothes...momentarily try to piece together the last 48 hours of my life...am distracted by the idea that i may not have a life...am further distracted by the idea to contact Bryers about making vodka ice cream...close eyes.