Death

8,150 people die everyday in the US. 8,150 people with a mother, a father, a life they were living no matter how grand or insignificant. How many families are shattered, dreams snuffed out in an instant, or a long, drawn-out fight.

The sterile smell of the ER and an asymmetric beeping set the stage for a man’s final moments. He is wheeled into the room next to me while I stand in the hallway, he’s covered in blood with nurses and doctors running by his side. I can’t see what he looks like, there are too many tubes, bandages, and bodies blocking my view. I see what his surgeon looks like, a handsome, muscular man in his late 30s, dark features and determined eyes. He is relaying orders to his colleagues, and they follow with military discipline like a scene out of a movie. Hands work deftly, metal tools flash, needles are inserted, bags of blood and medicine are hung up, fingers are working to save a life. I finish my phone call and walk back into the room where my mother is, she’s fine, just a panic attack, no movie for us. 10 minutes later my phone buzzes against my thigh, the ringer barely audible above the din around us. I step into the hall again to speak to my sister, warm glass against my face as I look to my left on the way out, I see desperation. The same doctor is sweating now, bloody gloves are still working to perform a miracle, but it doesn’t seem to be working, there is evidence of a struggle. A nurse is furiously performing CPR while another is working around his head, somebody else is monitoring the incessantly beeping machines against the wall. Blood in on the floor, pools of it, discarded plastic packaging strewn around, used surgical instruments are scattered among the carts. I can see more clearly now the extent of his injuries, the left side of his face is flayed, and his upper torso crushed, the bottoms of pale feet look at me, why haven’t they shut the curtain yet? I see all this in a fraction of a second while I walk towards the waiting room, I don’t want to disturb anyone with my comparatively innocuous phone call, lives are at stake here. While on my way back in I am chastised by the charge nurse, I need to stay in my room or wait in the front, no more meandering around the halls, I suppose that’s why the curtain wasn’t closed. An hour or so later my mother is discharged, as we exit the ER I look to my left again, I know I should give this man his privacy but I can’t help it, my morbid curiosity gets the best of me, I wish it hadn’t. The scene is much more somber, no more doctors or nurses, his room is quiet now. The only visitor is a young woman standing above a body draped in white cloth, tears falling. So many different thoughts and emotions assail me. Who is this woman? Was that her boyfriend? Husband? What happened? What did life have planned for them? What are her plans now? She has unknowingly shared her worst night with me, witnessed in brief sanguine moments that I’m glad she doesn’t have burned into her memory. When somebody tells you a story of their deep trauma, some awful experience, you can listen intently, but can you truly understand what they went through? Can you feel their grief? Do you even want to? Leaving the hospital that night I am met with a sense of deep reverence, of just how quick you can go from a life filled with love and a whole future ahead of you, to a white sheet and a funeral.