looking.

He threw back the curtain, making the patient in room #3 jump. The poor man had come for a wound cleaning & they had to kick him out of his room because a more urgent case was about to arrive at the sliding double doors.

When the yellow stretcher crossed the threshold the scared man was out of room #3 and a slightly overweight woman was wheeled in.

In a way, it was like slow motion—the bag that was breathing for her, the frenzied nurses who slapped her arms to try to get IV lines, the two techs who took turns pumping on her chest, the shuffling feet of the xray tech standing by his portable machine, and me who just stood there.

I’d crammed myself in a corner, trying to be as “out of the way” as possible. Codes can get kind of crazy at times, especially if there are changes in the leads stuck to the patients’ chest.

But we didn’t have any changes. Just a flat line.

And each time we checked & re-checked & checked again, it was still just a flat line. No heart beat. No voluntary respirations. No blood flowing through her veins without pumping on her sternum.

I think I noticed her toenails first. They were freshly painted, neatly trimmed. Her legs were shaved. Her hair was combed. She loved herself. And now she was naked, aside from her underwear, on the yellow stretcher. Surrounded by no less than 10 people. Pushing. Poking. Feeling. Moving. Sticking. Testing. Looking.

Her hands fell to the sides. Her head bumped against the hard plastic mattress with each chest compression. Her obese belly jiggled.

The bag was squeezed. The Epi was given. The leads were checked. The chest was pumped. The monitors examined. Pause. Assess. Repeat.

The bag was squeezed. The Epi was given. The leads were checked. The chest was pumped. The monitors examined. Pause. Assess. Repeat.

The bag was squeezed. The Epi was given. The leads were checked. The chest was pumped. The monitors examined. Pause. Assess. Repeat.

Five times. We repeated five times…and still, just a flat line danced across the monitor.

And once again, as if time had slowed down, the bag that was breathing for her was laid by her face. The frenzied nurses looked hopefully at the monitor one last time and then hung their heads. The two techs stepped back from the yellow stretcher. The xray machine was wheeled back down the hallway. And me, I just stood there.

I stood. And I looked. At the sheet that now covered the body that once was a woman with painted toenails & combed hair. And I looked. And I looked. And I looked until I walked into the consultation room & listened to the sobs of a husband who’d just lost his wife. And then I listened.

I listened to the “Oh God’s” and caught breaths. I listened to the wails & the crying. I listened to the nose-blowing and chest heaves. I listened. And I listened. And I listened until I couldn’t listen anymore. And then I excused myself.

The bathroom mirror didn’t lie. It wasn’t the fluorescent lights that made me blink, and it wasn’t the eyelash that had “fallen” in my eye. It was sadness and surprise and grief and “what if this happened to me”; it was “it’s not fair” and sympathy and “I don’t think I could handle this”. It was real. And there were tears. My tears...from my eyes. The eyes that had looked. The eyes that had seen life slip away as those shaven legs mottled & turned blue. The eyes that had seen the naked body. The eyes that had seen the love torn apart. The eyes that had seen the unexpected grief.

…the eyes…the ones right above the heart that didn’t understand.
…the eyes…the ones leading the faith that didn’t dare to ask why.