Black Cloud

I am the Angel of Death. Or so it seems. One week, three call nights, and three deaths. A victim of unfortunate timing, I know, but the ghosts (figuratively, not literally) haunt me. I don’t mean to take this kind of thing lightly, but a grim humor is often the only way to deal with this type of thing. It is a part of my job. To help people live well, and to allow people to die in a dignified manner.

I never knew my first ICU patient. She was a tangle of tubes and lines from the day we met. She managed to transition from talking to her dialysis nurse to seizing and cerebral herniation in a matter of minutes. I cared for what was left. She had no brain function, her breathing was supported by ventilators and her heart was supported by pharmaceuticals. When the decision was made to remove support, I had to write the order. As I walked the long hallway to her room, I passed the community she was leaving behind. I shook her father’s hand (a parent should never live to see their child die, no matter what age) and wrote the instructions.

Doctor / executioner / angel of mercy / angel of death. She was much more comfortable appearing without our apparatus. She lasted maybe thirty minutes.

I have spoken of death this week more than I care to recall. I seem to be good at it. Not a talent I asked for, but we take what we’re given.