Seemed An Eternity Poem by David Whalen

The minute of failure

The little boy’s body stiffened, then relaxed. Stiffened then relaxed. Eyes wide open, staring fixedly, and unseeing at the ceiling.

The young doctor grimaced with the effort, pumping intensely with his hands as if trying to pump water from a deep and long dry well. His hands moved in cadence with the old “Bee Gee’s song Stayin Alive” playing unconsciously in his mind.

The E.T.s that had originally answered the call to the lad’s home with the always dreaded “possible drowning victim” still sounding in their ears, stood uneasily in the doorway watching the frenetic activity.
Their usual M.O. was to end their vigilance when they had delivered the patient to the Pediatric E.R., and return to their truck to await the always: soon to come “next emergency.”

This time they couldn’t pull themselves away with the usual detachment that was expected of them. It shouldn’t have been that way, but when the victim (unfairly or not) of whatever the trauma ‘du jour’ was, was just a kid, they seemed to feel a guilt or responsibility that wasn’t truly theirs.

They had given the first ‘breaths of life’ to the bluish lips at the family’s swimming pool. Had done the first compressions to the unrising chest, and now seemed vested somehow in the boy’s welfare. They couldn’t leave. They felt obligated to stay. As if just by their presence, somehow the lad would be helped. Failure was something they didn’t accept very easily in their profession.

The doctor nodded to the R.N. assisting him and then stepped back rubbing his tingling, aching hands and arms While the R.N. seamlessly picked up the Bee Gee beat, brow furrowed in concentration.

The video screen above the bed showing the boy’s vitals blinked with red and green lights. The screen would show green, (which was good) for a few moments… but then would return to the dreaded red. Hopes rising and falling with each change in color.

With the red screen returning more often, and more often, and the green less and less so, faces turned more grim. Eyes started averting others, as if there were a mutually shared shame that was spreading contagiously among the caregivers and the spectators. The mother sat stoically, staring almost without blinking, straight ahead at her son.

It was as if the grim reaper stood back hidden in the shadows, patiently awaiting the inevitable moment of concession of human effort and futility.

It seemed an eternity, yet was only a moment when the doctor stepped back a final time and held a hand up, to tacitly tell the R.N. “no more” and the machine made a steady sad sound and shined a steady red light that while only a light, seemed to have a sound unto itself.

The mother seemed to fold into herself, shoulders heaving in silent, convulsive sobbing.

All unnecessary personnel seemed to suddenly find tasks to do, and other places where they should be. Silently, all tried to return to that comfortable state of life that seemed to have suddenly evaporated, but by sheer force of will could be reconstituted into normality… however long that might take.

The minute of failure had arrived… and passed. The mother moaned softly as a sheet was pulled over the face of the lad. The young boy and the grim reaper walked into the shadows, hand in hand.