Powerful.

In the fragile calm of the wee hours
I keep my vigil
in the cloister of the ICU.
Twelve long hours I watch over
My charges.
A soothing hand on a brow here
Or gentle hold of trembling hand there.
A whispered reassurance that I am
At their sides.
Vital signs, physician orders,
IVs, A-lines and Foleys,
Monitors, electrodes, trachs and ETs,
Many machines that hiss and click in the
Dimmed light of the unit.
Comfort measures –
High tech and low tech.
Other nurses softly talking as
They pass along the hall tending to their own.
Earlier in the shift,
In a flurry of action and urgency,
Our new patient came through the double doors.
On a gurney from ER, the seventy-three year old, perched bolt upright,
Gave commands to her family trailing her.
Chestnut wig on her head, lots of mascara and that blue that
Women of a certain age like wearing on their eyes and garish fire engine red lipstick.
I noted the rings on her fingers
And pearls encircling her sagging neck will have to be removed.
Her orders going forth, she instructs her family in tow:
“Please see to this, see to that. . .”
And suddenly with her finger still in the air and her mouth open she fell silent.
Immediately looking for any sign something was wrong, I looked from the foot of the gurney
Into her eyes.
To my amazement I saw a light from inside her pass by the window of her pupil
And simply go out,
Like the lantern of a lighthouse along the shore as it makes its circular rounds.
Unlike the lighthouse, this light went out forever.
A ghastly grey crept up her chest to her shoulders and face, a blank stare shot past my head.
She hadn’t yet been fully admitted across our threshold, yet crossed the invisible one as we watched.