I Would Rather Be In Bed

It’s dark and quiet in the room. The lights are turned down low. Your family has left. It’s just me left. Just me, and you, and your quiet slow breaths.

I pull a stool up beside your bed and wrap my hand around yours. I could leave. Your family has. Apparently at peace with what is to happen next. I have a list a mile long of things that need done. But, I look at your closed eyes and watch your chest rise and fall ever so slowly and think, if this were me, I hope someone would hold my hand at the end.

I push another dose of morphine. To make you comfortable or to bring that light a little closer, I never can tell anymore. I’ve been doing this too long. I sigh. The monitors are turned off. I don’t need an alarm to tell me when it’s over. I’ll know. I wonder if you’re in there. I wonder if you know I’m here. I wonder if it’s any comfort to you at all. I’m staying either way.

Your hand is frail and cold. I can feel every bone through your paper thin skin. I wonder how, as you take your last breaths, I’m the only one here. Your family was just here half an hour ago. Now they’re gone, left to settle what’s left behind of you instead of holding your hand. It’s just me.

I rest my forehead on the bedrail. You aren’t looking. You don’t know. I can’t even think of your name. They forgot to put your armband on and I’ve had so many patients today I can’t think of your name right now. I may not know your name. But I won’t forget you. I won’t forget your last minutes. Somebody has to remember them.

I wonder how many people are alone. I wonder if it matters. I wonder if this will matter at all. It has to. Because I just can’t let you go alone. It doesn’t seem like a thing a person should do alone.

The thready beat under my fingers is very slow and weak now. It won’t be long. I tell you it’s okay. I tell you not to worry. I tell you being free of this old frail skin and bones is wonderful. I hope I’m right. I have no idea.

The very last breath comes and your pulse fades away. I sit for a moment. I check the time. A moment passes and I call the doctor. A time is declared. Now it is only paperwork. Now I hope you are free and I hope you weren’t afraid because you didn’t have to be so alone. I look at you and I wonder, who will be holding my hand when I am at the end.

⁃ a letter from an ER nurse to a woman whose name I will never remember, but whose death I will never forget.