Lies or a Final Comfort?
I'm very pleased to announce that the story I am posting today won the second place in the last Daily Prompt app weekly competition. :-) Unexpected but honoured and humbled for the great feedback I got along a money prize.
The prompt requested writing a short story where a character sees themselves as a monster. This time I decided to stay away from werewolves, psychos, murderers and other sinister creatures, to write about someone who suffers from self-doubt in a place that we seldom thin about but that isn't far from our reality: the ICU ward in any hospital near you. I agree the character doesn't really come across as a monster, but it was a story I thoroughly enjoyed writing. I hope you enjoy too!
Lies or a Final Comfort?
I have always been told I give people some comfort in their last moments. But I’ve never really seen it that way. In my mind I am a liar. I tell them something I know isn’t going to happen. I am an ICU nurse so death is constantly around. Reminding me how powerful and ruthless it is. When I see people coming, in I know that unless a miracle happens - and by the way, I don’t believe in miracles - most of these people are doomed. I see them covered with blood. I see their eyes slowly closing and giving in to the final sleep. I see broken limbs, some come in already dead. But as I approach these people, I hold their hands tight.
“You are going to be okay.” I say with a smile that hides the pain in my soul.
“Mam, I don’t want to die. I’m too young to die.” says the 25 year old biker who has just crashed against a truck. His both legs are broken, his ribs have perforated his lungs.
“You won’t, you are going to be okay, just keep breathing.” I say, adjusting the drip tube under his nostrils.
He passed not even an hour later and I was the one closing his eyes with a lump in my throat. I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of this lump. You may say that as a nurse it’s my job to develop a stomach as this is my daily life, but I wonder if I’ll ever really become that insensitive.
“Mam, I’m only 50. There is so much I still want to do and see.” says the police officer who was shot by thugs while performing his duty. The bullet is too close to his heart. Not a chance.
“You will still do and see a lot, you are going to be fine.” I assure him, gently taking my hand to his forehead.
He also passed within the hour.
I take a short break to go to the canteen and have a warm mug of tea. I sit at the table, plunging the bag in and out of the mug, wondering what kind of person I really am. Why do I lie to people in their last moments? Isn’t the truth always better than lying?
“You must not be so hard on yourself, Jodie.” Amy, my team leader and friend tells me, patting my shoulder. She’s much older than me and I can see in every single wrinkle and tired look that at some stage in her career, she was assaulted by the same doubts. I didn’t see her coming but she’s also holding a tea mug.
“I feel so bad, Amy, maybe this job isn’t for me after all. I’m nothing but a liar. I tell people they will be okay when I know they won’t.”
“How do you know, sweetheart? Maybe they actually will? Nobody has ever come back from the other side to tell us how it is.”
I press my face against my palms and let the tears flow. I don’t believe there in another side. Maybe that’s why this job takes such a toll on me. When you are a believer, you accept death and suffering more easily, I think.
“Are you a believer, Amy?” I ask, reaching out to a napkin on the table to blow my nose and wipe my tears.
She shrugs her shoulders and takes a sip before answering.
“Not sure, to be honest.” she says. “I just like believing that what we do isn’t in vain, that gives me a purpose and strength to do this every day.”
I shake my head, my eyes burning. Amy pats me again.
“Listen, Jodie. We will not save all of them. A few will survive, most will die. But perhaps our job isn’t saving all the lives that cross our paths. Maybe our real job is to give some comfort to the people we know will not make it to the following day. You aren’t really a liar. You are trying your best to make sure they leave this life as painlessly as possible.”
I raise my eyes at her and attempt a smile. Those were comforting words. She squeezes my shoulder, takes a last sip and walks away. I finish my tea and get up. I have more patients to attend to. Just five minutes later, someone else arrives. My colleagues rush the gurney towards the ICU ward.
“What happened?” I ask, staring at the man on the gurney.
“Work accident. The cement mixer fell straight on his chest. Several ribs broken.”
The man is already unconscious when I look at him. Probably not even forty yet. I take his pulse.
“He’s dead already, no need to rush.” I say, never taking my eyes off him.
My colleagues stop pushing the gurney and stare at him to confirm what I just said. I take my hand to his forehead as I always do.
“You are going to be okay. Rest in peace.” I whisper.
_______
Enjoyed this story? Check my previous ones:
Fluffy,
the Spiteful Cat
Behold
the Brave New World
Or my Werewolf Stories, which I post every Full Moon:
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