Just another day at work

The section of the east part of the hospital reeks of sterile cleaner, and of strong coffee. The fluorescent lights are blinding, and the hallways are quiet and still.

I enter room 415, and quietly shut the door behind me. I venture over to you, hoping I am not the one to find that you have passed. The sun has started to set, and I go over to the blinds to ease the glare in the room. The room is silent, all except for your breathing. You are making the, "death rattle.” The sound you make when it is your time to leave. We call it that, for it is the sound of your body putting up a final battle.  I click on the television, flipping through, till I have a faint murmur of soft music playing in the background.

I head over to you now. Lift your head and wipe your brows. I put a moisture swap in your mouth to help with the dryness.  Turning you over on your side, I place pillows to ease your discomfort. The only sound that you make in protest is a small grunt, almost a whimper. Then you’re still again.

I'm cleaning up your room when your daughter arrives.  Her footsteps are heavy, and she chokes back a sob as she walks over to your bed. Trying to give you privacy, I keep my eyes averted, and try to finish with my task. I hear her, lean down and she gives you a hug. Her hand brushes back your hair, and she kisses your forehead. 

"I love you." She cries.

Her voice is soft and she is not pleading with you. She has accepted the fact that you are about to leave her.

"You can go now; you don't have to fight anymore."

"It’s…. OK."

Moisture gathers in my eyes, and I make a swift exit to the door. I don't want her to see me cry.  I shut the door behind me, and sanitize my hands with the dispenser to my right. My pocket starts vibrating, and I reach for my pager.

It reads, "Room 418, help."

I take a deep breath, place a smile on my face, and go to the next room to help the next patient.