When The Music Stops
by Erin Fristad
I’m unsure if I put my hand
on the respiratory therapist’s shoulder
or just leaned against him.
Debbie was on my other side,
next to her, the ICU nurse
assigned the morning shift.
Touching or not, we braced
and together they pulled out
the ventilator tube, he quickly
disappeared it from sight, she
wiped your chin clean.
Their performance perfectly
orchestrated, sadly, well-practiced.
You didn’t move. Had you been able
you would have mentioned those
famed Russian pairs skaters, Alexander
and Irina, so perfectly trained they skated
even when their music stopped
and won the 1973 World Championships.
Nurse Irina’s final move, a lift
of the white cotton blanket
drizzled with the green and brown fluid
filling your lungs.
Did I squeeze his shoulder in thanks?
Or just mutter a small gratitude
when he caught my eye, our mutual
recognition that this attempt at mercy
could have gone a lot worse.
You sputtered only slightly,
shrunk smaller into your bed.
Soon the deep gurgle arrived
just like the instructional handout
from the nurse said it would.
All afternoon we sat by it,
the creek in your woods
growing louder as light
faded to dark.
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