"When 3 Months Become 3 Days"
for Stanley
When I ask if you need anything
you say, I don’t know what I need.
In the past few days,
your frustration has increased
over the weakness
that does not allow you
to tend yourself.
The toilet becomes a bedside commode
you slide off of, hit your head.
The last thing you want
before midnight,
is for the heat to be turned down,
the window shades opened wide
inviting the dark inside
as if you know
or have chosen.
Comfort measures only.
You do not want
your regular medications,
IV fluids, red blood cells, platelets,
no morphine pump, no oxygen.
Do not resuscitate.
A nurse’s technical skills useless
as I watch your body empty.
Bloody diarrhea, dwindling
urine output in the foley bag,
declining blood pressure, pulse
the last of you I can record.
I check on you at shift’s end,
your lips are dusky,
breathing slow, face calm.
I take you home with me,
think of frequent admissions,
your smile, the 53 transfusions
you had over the last year
as AML slowly took.
At sunrise I see you
out in the woods
walking your traplines.
If you could choose
when to take your last breath
it would be now,
as the sun colors
the horizon of your windows..
© 2009 Kathy Paupore
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