quietly sad

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I haven't felt much like writing these last few days, or even finding a poem to reflect the day. The loss of the 16 year old boy on Tuesday has lingered and I've not been able to completely wash off the raw pain that filled his hospital room and seeped down the hallway until it filled the entire unit with the cries of his family. It was not an unexpected death. The resulting injury from the bullet's path was non-survivable. It had crossed the midline and the swelling to the brain from the blast force pushed his brain downward herniating his brainstem which led to brain death. It was non-survivable once some young boy's index finger pushed back the trigger in a tiny increment of a second. Less time than taking a breath.


He either pulled the trigger himself or someone else pulled it. Kids playing to be men with guns not realizing the gun was loaded or perhaps some darker,more malevolent reason. Doesn't matter in the nanosecond of choice to the nanosecond of no return. In less than the length of time it takes to blink an eye, to take a breath, to think a thought another young boy's future is determined and set in place. The length of time it takes for his family to sit by his bed watching blood and brain matter seep from the bandages wrapping his head is 17 hours and 13 minutes. The recovery time for them will be without an end.


And so, borrowing a music video from V-Grrrl's post, I plan to listen to a little Lyle Lovett because I adore him and his voice is a balm for this sore heart. Thank you Miss V.






Comments

  1. ScotMay 4, 2008 at 6:36 AM

    not much to say here that hasn't been said. But there is a poem in your writing already written.

    ReplyDelete
  2. AnonymousMay 4, 2008 at 6:39 AM

    My son was a NICU baby. When he was a year old,he had a minor surgery that went all wrong and we ended up in the pediatric ward of an urban teaching hospital for nearly two weeks and then had home health care for more than two weeks afterwards.

    The only thing worse than having him in the hospital was the non-stop sound of crying babies and young children, the anguished faces of parents dealing with far worse scenarios than what we were facing, and the children whose parents never showed up at all or showed up angry and yelled at them.

    The head of pediatric surgery was my son's doctor, and one day he was agitated and annoyed. A teen patient that he'd saved from death from a gunshot wound months before was back under his care--shot again.

    A glimpse into your world...

    ReplyDelete
  3. ElisabethMay 5, 2008 at 5:45 AM

    This was beyond heart-wrenching, and I was deeply moved by the beautiful way in which you wrote about it. My heart goes to you - I only have admiration for people who work in hospitals, and have to deal with this kind of grim reality, day in, day out.

    ReplyDelete

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Hey, thanks for your thoughts and your time:>)

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