Gertrude

I remember Gertrude.

I remember that head of white and paper thin skin, daughter by her side, holding her hand, hands so thin they looked like reeds with a fine mesh of veins cloaking them, she had a loud audible wheeze, barely masked by the low vibration of her nebulizer, producing magic clouds that would help open her airways. The daughter offering quiet comfort to the woman with a failing heart.

She asked for roast chicken. Her daughter looked at her and told her she couldn’t have any. It was too dangerous and that she was to have her puree because that was what the doctors ordered.

Morning ward rounds, we arrive at Gertrude’s bed. Dr Hamilton asks, “How are you today, Gertrude?” She smiles, her eyes gentle and warm, she smiles and tells him she is feeling fine. She tells him this as she is gasping for air, using all her accessory muscles to breath, as she lies on her side, wedged between two pillows as that is the only position she feels comfortable in. Dr Hamilton holds her hand. “Of course you are fine, because that’s just you isn’t it Gertrude? You never complain.”

Gertrude died that very night, she died before she could have roast chicken.

November 13, 2011. The darkness within.