Intensive Care

A Story by Scribbles

My first (and last) visit

The steady drone of great machines dulled the haunting silence, like a grim reaper lying in wait to claim his victims. Solemn nurses tended to their living skeletons, fading gently into the crisp white of their bed linen. The plastic odour of disinfectant immersed us in a bleak world of age and illness, then I saw you. Like as beacon of life, you shone even in your medicated slumber.
I watched your breath come slowly, deeply, the steady rise and fall of your chest mesmirised me. Terrified, I touched your arm as though it was glass. You lent me your warmth, your skin bright and pink against the pale ghosts of I.C.U. Above your eye a jagged scar stood as the only evidence of your pain, and I thought of Seamus Heaney's poppy bruise and gently sobbed, each deep, warm breath you took reforming the shattered pieces of my life.
Warm fingers gently wrapped around my trembling hand as I saw my teary eyes reflected within yours. Dry lips curled into a smile, broken only by the plastic snakes that slithered past your mouth: ventilatiors, feeding tubes, morphine... I urged you not to speak - words caught in my throat as I struggled to return your smile. A quiet doctor told us time was up, your warm grip tightening on my fingers in alarm.
Salty tears rolled down my cheeks as I unclenched your hand and kissed it gently. "Another day, my dear," I whispered as your eyes again began to flutter closed again. "Another day."