Letter Fragments

Writing to a person you’ve never met

The sky is the palest blue wash and the light doesn’t look awake yet.

Biking in to work today, I will be cold most of the way; I will probably warm up right around the time I get to the hospital. 

I think of you every day. You have become such a significant presence in my life.

You are in everything.

You know that I will take any moment’s snapshot of you that I can get, don’t you? Every day I am scared–scared that you’re in pain, that someone’s not taking care of you, that I won’t hear from you, that you will leave my life without ever letting me hear your voice. The selfish fears are as prominent as the selfless ones, because I can’t wish for you that someone tender is holding your hand without wishing it were me. 

I have stories for you that I’ve been collecting. I’ve been writing down key words on scraps of paper that have been floating randomly around in my bag–coupons from the coffee shop, last month’s grocery list. Time is my limiting factor…perhaps you should be grateful that I spend most of my time taking care of the aged and weakly-beating hearts of America’s veterans or sleeping, instead of writing to you. But it is Sunday morning, my one day off this week, and Grant and Colm are upstairs making pancakes, and I’m in the basement with my coffee and this ghost of you floating over me.

Going through Med School

A woman comes in to the ER with abdominal pain, probably her gallbladder. “How long has your belly been hurting you?” I ask. “Oh, probably since we went to Wal Mart.”

My pager goes off late. “Mrs. N’s pressure is in the 70s over 20s and both IVs are wide open.” “I’ll be right there.” I keep the patient alive from midnight until 6:30. I don’t think about what the true underlying pathology is; I’m just putting out fires. I don’t think about anything but how to keep her blood pressure up and keep her breathing. I try not to wake up the intensivist and the staff surgeon. Two nurses and I try to do it by ourselves. Only now does it occur to me that maybe I should have awakened someone.

The patient’s son strides into the ICU at 5 am, smelling of alcohol. Bourbon, I think, but I’m not sure. He demands an explanation. He says, “What do you mean she’s deteriorating? Are you telling me my mom is dying? Aren’t you doing anything for her? Why aren’t you doing anything about this?” He is acting like he is trying not to hit me. He scares me but I keep talking to him. “You tell me this,” he says. “What is her prognosis? You tell me.” I can’t tell him because I don’t know. I can’t tell him that I’m just trying to keep her alive until someone who knows what he’s doing gets out of the shower and gets down to the hospital. He keeps looking at my white coat and I wish I didn’t have a nametag on.