Time of Death

Time of Death

A Story by Fuushin
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This was the very first writing prompt of the semester. "The nurse left the hospital at 5:01..." was our only condition.

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           The nurse left the hospital at five o’clock. My heart stopped at 5:01. Eight minutes earlier, she had given warning to the next shift’s nurse about my precarious situation. Two minutes later, she left the room. One minute after her departure, the new nurse went back to the nurse’s station. One hour before that new nurse reached the station, I was wheeled into my room after a five hour surgery. Fifteen minutes prior to surgery, I was given enough anesthesia to keep me under for six hours. Ten minutes before the anesthesia, I bade my family good-bye. I was under the impression that in six hours and twenty-six minutes, my heart would still be pumping blood through my body. I looked my mother in the eye as I was rolled away. At 3:59, three minutes after being rolled into an ICU room, the surgeon informed the nurse that my operation had been successful.

            One minute later, at 4:00 PM exactly, he told her that despite the surgical team’s success on the operating table, there were serious complications. I would need careful monitoring. Four minutes later, the surgeon left the room. He made it to the waiting room in two minutes. At 4:10, he had finished explaining everything to my parents, and at 4:12, my mother began to cry while my father simultaneously placed his left arm around her shoulder. Eleven minutes preceding that, in the ICU, the nurse stood with a clipboard in her hands, recording my vitals. She touches my wrist to locate a pulse. Six minutes later, the phone in the nurse’s station rang. 4:07, another nurse entered the room and delivered a message. The nurse with the clipboard had given birth to a daughter twenty-three years ago. Twenty-two years and three months ago, the daughter found out that she was pregnant. Nine months and three days later, she went into labor. Twenty minutes after arriving at the hospital, the nurse’s son-in-law picked up his cell phone. It’s 4:06, his call connects and the phone at the nurse’s station rings.

            It’s 5:00, fifty-three minutes after the message was delivered, and my nurse was scheduled to get off the clock. 4:08, both nurses returned to the station, and five minutes afterward, my nurse had arranged to end her shift fifteen minutes early. It takes fifteen minutes to get from this hospital to the one where her daughter currently was. Two things were happening at the same time when 4:16 came around. My nurse was smiling as she re-entered my room, and two floors below, my mother had stopped crying. Twenty years, four months, sixteen days, twelve hours and thirty-three minutes before that, my mother sat in a hospital bed with my father by her side as a doctor handed her a tiny newborn, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket and wearing a small beanie. Forty-eight hours later, that same doctor held a private meeting with the proud parents. In six minutes, he’d given my disease a name.

            At 4:17, I was still under anesthesia.  The hospital staff was not expecting me to wake up for another thirty minutes, at least. Four minutes before that, I came to, long enough for the nurse to check on me.  My mouth is dry and I can taste metal. 4:43, and the nurse’s replacement has arrived at the hospital. Just two short minutes afterward, I was asleep again. On a normal day, my nurse would get off in fifteen minutes, and it would be another twenty just to get out of the hospital. It’s now 4:50, and the replacement nurse is in the elevator, on the way up to the eighth floor. She smells like strong coffee. While she is walking down the hall to clock in, the doctor is telling my parents that they will be allowed to see me soon. Three minutes pass, the two nurses meet. Two minutes’ worth of explanation and my nurse is on her way. One short minute is passed between me and the replacement nurse.

             It is five o’clock now, she is on her way out the front doors. 5:01, my heart stops and a blue line appears on the monitor. 5:02, and a crash cart is pushed into my room. 5:03, the doctor in the waiting room two floors below receives a page and bolts from the room, leaving my mother and father bewildered. 5:04 comes around, the blue line hasn’t changed. Sixty seconds pass, and the replacement nurse calls my time of death. 5:05 PM.

© 2010 Fuushin


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Awesome. It did get a little confusing with all the times, but overall it was very creative and profoundly sad.

Posted 14 Years Ago



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Added on May 6, 2010
Last Updated on May 6, 2010

Author

Fuushin
Fuushin

Warren, OH



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