First Night
Oxygen whistling, pumping moist air
to a cup clasped over my husband’s mouth,
monitors beeping, flashing his vital signs,
an IV taped to his wrist slowly pumping saline
into his veins, in a private room on
the critical cardiac care unit,
one nurse to every two patients.
Just this noon, surgeons inserted
a stent to open his blocked
left descending artery, a heart attack
often referred to as a widow-maker.
It’s two in the morning, and I’m holding
an emesis basin below his mouth
as he retches. The night nurse, Nancy,
enters, says, “The doctor left an order
for an anti-emetic, but let’s see
how he does. His body is adjusting
to the medicine, and the after-
affects of anesthesia.” She goes out,
returns with a heated half-blanket
that she lays down over him,
covering his waist to feet.
“He’ll love that,” I say. I must have sighed
because she offers, “I can get you one.”
“Really? Yes, please.” She returns
with a heated blanket, wraps it around
my shoulders, sets the blanket in place
as she squeezes my shoulders from behind
as my hands are full, holding the basin.
“Thank you,” I say, “All better now.”
She leaves to attend to her other patient.
© Laura Rodley
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| Laura Rodley |
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