Peace, in the Terminal Ward

Translated…

He is a doctor in the terminal ward.

Everything he does, from day to day, is to “cure” those who had been, declared, “terminally ill”.

nope, not my photograph…

This, is a sector of the medical realm that nobody knows anything about.  The patients usually found it hard to accept, that they are, here, the originally prepared words also had some difficulties, getting spoken aloud.  He’d always, improvised, and waited, to get shocked.

But, seeing Mr. Lee’s charts, it was enough, to NOT keeping him in false pretenses of how everything is okay.  His cancer had metastasized, there were, knots inside of his liver everywhere, and some had already, crossed the “borders”, and gotten into his abdominal region, and, the ascites, are, accumulating too.

The tumor is no longer the target now, curing it is NO longer a consideration.  He’d flipped through the book of medicine over and over, and just can’t, manage, to prescribe a single medicine.  Like he was, disarmed off his medical weaponry, but, entered, into a dangerous territory where the weapons are needed.

These two days, Mr. Lee started going in and out of confusion.  He had the one-hundred-percent oxygenated mask on his face, and he’d still, panted like he was, out of air.  The CT showed: there are expanding bodies of blood clots inside both his lungs.  He took a turn for the worst.

Should he use the anticoagulants?  They’d agreed before, to NOT intubate him.  But, there are still, signs of life, and so, resuscitating procedures still must be, implemented?  At this time, he’d become, split in half: the him that’s done everything by the texts, and the him, that’s deep inside.  A war had, begun.

The him that’s done everything by the books said: if you don’t intubate, then, he’ll go into respiratory failure, with it, the blood clots will dissolve, he’ll feel better.  At least, the digits would look better in the laboratory setting.

The him deep down said: using the methods may increase the chances of bleeding, even if it worked, it’s just, increasing the complications, and prolonging his suffering, this, is NOT what the patient would have wanted.

Mr. Lee is an authoritarian dad from a very traditional family.  Rarely said a word to his children.  As he fell ill, his only son came to took care of his physical wellbeing, but, never knew of what was going on in his own father’s mind, or how his father felt.  A while ago, he’d become, a vessel, heard Mr. Lee told the intertwined, complicated story of his life, silently, took in, all of his dreams, as well as, his fears too.

and no, still NOT my photograph…

He can only stand by and watch Mr. Lee’s condition worsen.  Once he went to Mr. Lee’s room to check on him, Mr. Lee told his son to leave the room, he’d whispered into his ears, “Doc, I really DO love my son, and I’m so very, unwilling to leave him!”, asked him if he’d wanted to do anything, anything at all.  Mr. Lee said, “I really want a cigarette, and down a glass of beer”.  Although, he can’t, manage to, swallow anything anymore.

Before he’d died, after falling into a coma, the words still hadn’t become, the way, he’d expressed his love as a father toward his own son.  He’d told what Mr. Lee told him to his son.  The son started crying, so did he.

All these years, in this “terminal” ward, there had been, endless number of patients like Mr. Lee who’d died, under his care.  The scripts had been written in the very beginning, the end had already been, stated clearly.  Without the cries and the rants, seemingly “peaceful”.

not my photograph still…

And, every patient he’d watched over still, shocked him in the most unique of all ways.  It’d caused him to, get trapped, in the vortexes of the emotions.  And, being experienced in working in his field had, never made anything easier at all.

Mr. Lee died rather quickly, without much pains.  As he woke, in the depth of the nights late one night, he saw: Mr. Lee, lying on a certain beach chair, on a beach, in heaven, completely lucid, without the respirators, with a cigarette, drinking down those large glasses of beer.  Smiled, and looked at him.

He felt a momentary kind of serenity, and, knew, that what he should be treating: when the lives of his patients can’t be saved, his primary mission is to, salvage, a better death for them.

He took a long breath in, pulled back the curtains, ready to face his next patient, bravely.

So, this, is what a doctor at the terminal ward need to cope with every single day, and, every now and then, there would be one or two patients who’d touched you, and, their deaths would, shock you, as if, you’d lost someone close to you too, but, you still have to, pick yourselves back up from the grief, and, move forward.