Your eyes beg me. Your soft hand squeezes mine. HARD. You are sweating and panting just from the effort of breathing. “Please don’t let me die” You won’t last much longer. You are only 34.
Your husband is pacing on the side of your room, watching the doctor. Watching the nurses. Watching you. His eyes know. I try to reassure you that you are in good hands and try to help you focus on breathing. I do know that we are doing everything we can and nothing is helping you.
It is time to intubate now. You are scared. You start to softly cry. I just hold your hand. I can’t tell you that everything will be okay.
I tell you its time to put you to sleep now. Right before I prepare to push the mediations in your IV, you grab my arm and stare deeper in to my eyes than anyone has ever done before. “Just please make sure I wake back up! My babies need me!” Again, I tell you that you are in good hands. The physician and critical care nurse practitioner in the room are some of the best. Your husband steps out to the waiting room and we begin. This will help. It has to.
It doesn’t.
Three hours later I am trying my best to hold back my sobbing so I can comfort your husband. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t ready. Your husband wasn’t ready. I didn’t know you, but I wasn’t ready. Your eyes will forever be staring in to mine, begging me “please don’t let me die”.
-In memory of C314
Loading comments...