I watched a man die today.
It happened at the breakfast table;
he slumped over in his chair and started to convulse.
His lips turned white and I helped him from the chair to the floor.
He gasped for air and I grabbed his hand.
His chart clearly stated "DO NOT RESUSCITATE", so I didn't.
I kept calling his name, as if recognition of his existence would ward off death. It didn't.
Helpless, I sat there on the kitchen floor, with a man I took care of but didn't really know.
It was like trying to preform vitals on a mannequin. No pulse. No respirations. No blood pressure. No air.
I pronounced his time of death "11:12h",
I told someone they should probably write that down.
I had never seen death before, not even at a funeral.
They made me clean his stiff body and we carried him from the kitchen to his room.
Now I understand the saying "dead weight".
I kept his jaw closed so the undertakers wouldn't have to break it.
They call this "rigor mortis", when the body stiffens.
Then everyone looked to me for guidance "you have an education, right? You know what to do."
They don't teach you this in school.
The undertakers came and hoisted him into the body bag.
Why did they take him like that? Cleanly zipped the black bag of doom from bottom to top.
There, ladies and gentlemen, was the grand finale of ninety-three years of existence.
I wasn't ready for him to leave.
How will he breathe? Wait-- right. Dead people don't breathe.
I wasn't ready for him to be dead.
They should've come later.
How do I move on from this? From something so absolute?
Maybe I should've chosen a different career.
Sorry this is kind of raw and not very poetic. But this is more like a story I guess, or something I had to get off my chest. A patient of mine died and I needed to tell it like it happened.