A Virtual Reality Devotional

Stained glass window

The body lies prostrate

On the confessional floor

A weakened avatar

Your closed door

Heartbeat slowed

From afar

Fading finally

Into empty code

Mere tokens

Conquests

Meaningless and broken

Nothing of value

Can be taken

Only the memories of love

Gained and lost

And gained again

Virtual virtue

Virtually gone

And truth now clear

Life

Turned into fear

Death 

A final frontier

Hold your breath

It is not so painless 

As they wanted us

To believe

A touch of tenderness

This is a wonderful post about the importance of touch in life and death. Please pop over and read it if you have not done so already.

Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

The Cathedral by Rodin.

My son gleefully squeezed harder at the knotted muscle in my shoulder, with a ‘Now I’ve got you’ as I groaned in agony. We have established and agreed that he has a slightly sadistic tendency where I am concerned. It may have something to do with my knack of getting just the right spot on the painful muscles as we got his body working again. Day after painful day, for months on end. So now it is payback… and he appears to enjoy it. He still manages to lay the blame squarely on my aching shoulders, muttering something that sounds vaguely like ‘hereditary’.

He is a little more squeamish than I. His face screws up in horror as my wrist bones crunch back into place when he applies traction. It is, however, nice to regain freedom of movement occasionally. So I make him do it…

View original post 1,189 more words

The Resurrectionist

Rotting car partially buried in the mud

You clawed your way out
Of a moonlit grave
Through the clods of dirt 
Moistened with your own 
Bloody piss and tears
When he showed up once more,
Hand extended, offering immortality.
He insisted that you believe he
Was the one who loved you and
Raised you up from the dead
Promising, as he had before,
That he would never be 
The one to actually harm you.
And?
Despite everything,
In spite of all of the cuts already made…
You believed.

*Resurrectionists exhumed bodies from fresh graves, then sold those corpses to local anatomists for dissection during the 18th and 19th centuries. They were also known as body snatchers. 

What Is Left

Submarine hatch
“What are you doing to me?” he asked sharply. 

I shoved a pair of new pajamas into the drawer and closed it, turning around to face him.

He sat on the edge of the bed. A once tall and proud man, he was now withered and shrunken. His eyes accused me. Of what, he was no longer certain, but he was absolutely sure I was guilty.

He was right.

“This isn’t a cruise ship is it?” I shook my head. “I lost my wallet and haven’t got any money.” The anger in his voice was replaced by fear.

I patted his hand reassuringly. “It’s rehab, hon. You’ll be back home before you know it.” The lie burned my throat as I said it but it mollified him for the moment.

The roommate sat across the room watching our exchange silently from his wheelchair, wrapped in a plaid robe with white socks pulled up to his knees. His grizzly, stubbled face showed no sign of recognition or understanding but his eyes followed me suspiciously about the room. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I bent low, kissing the wrinkled forehead, and squeezing his hand. He smiled weakly. 

I’d loved him. Once. 

Now someone else was living in this body of his. There was distance between us that stretched much father than the few inches apparent to the casual observer. I felt nothing for this interloper, but still there were social expectations that had to be met, guilt that must be assuaged.

How often must I visit him to keep from being ostracized by friends and family?

Somehow I deserved this, I had no doubt, but he did not.

I understood now, I realized, as I walked down the corridor for the hundredth time. This must have been how Prometheus felt.

‘Tis the Season

Dried flower

There was a time I believed that the longer I was practicing medicine the easier the dying would get. Practice or callous formation, call it what you will. I just thought it would be easier.

That is not the case, though. 

These long standing relationships, the people I see for years and years, are the hardest to part with even when you are expecting it. It still hurts. And with each passing it brings me closer and closer to my own end.

This is the dying season, it seems, those couple of months after the holidays when everyone who was holding on is now ready to let go. 

Everyone but me. 

Not yet, anyway…

Katrina

Calm waters
“He needs a letter saying he’s disabled so he can get his check. All of his medical records were destroyed.”

His mother handed me a newspaper article clipping with a man of similar height and build pictured. It told of all of his physical disabilities and how he was working to conquer them. A journalistic fluff piece but now they presented it as proof of his condition and identity. 

“He can’t talk and he has to use the cane.”

“Why?”

“He had a stroke.”

“Which side did it affect?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Which side of the brain did it affect?”

“Both sides.”

Odd thing to say but it was not impossible and then sometimes people don’t really understand their medical conditions. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt but a nagging in my gut told me there was something not right. Was I being too judgemental? After all so many people had suffered so much.

Even stranger was that while there was some resemblance to the man in the article photo, they actually appeared to be two different people. I checked the date on the article. Five years. People age, they change with time. This man, though, appeared to be younger than the fellow in the photograph. Furthermore, when I did my exam, he was very clearly faking weakness.

“I am sorry. I cannot write that letter.”

“What? So what is he supposed to do without his check?” Hostility crept into her voice then progressed to outright indignation. “We lost our house, our money, everything we owned. We waded down the street past dead bodies. You have no idea what we have been through.” 

She was right. I had no idea what anyone in New Orleans had been through. Had they actually been there, though? I had no way of knowing for sure. I wanted to give everyone the benfit of the doubt but after several of these, I found myself becoming bitter and jaded.

“Let me send you to a neurologist who has also volunteered to see evacuees for free. Maybe he will have a different opinion….” 

“Forget it!” she yelled back at me.

They both stood and exited the room. I stared after them. He didn’t even bother to maintain the pretense of using the cane at this point.

This is what I remember about Hurricane Katrina… all of the people using the disaster and the very real suffering of hundreds of thousands to further their own interests and the feeling that nothing I did ended up helping a single soul.

Take Me Higher

Entrance to St. Peter's Basilica at the Vatican.
The young woman glanced down at the distinguished, gray haired gentleman propped up on pillows as she hung the bag of potassium from the IV pole at the head of the bed. 

He was more handsome in person than he appeared on TV, she decided.

“This might burn going in,” she murmured. “The computer says your level was a smidge too low.” They were piloting a new AI program that made treatment decisions instead of doctors. It was said to be more effective and more reliable, better outcomes.

The patient looked up at her from his newspaper and nodded, winking. “Thanks for the heads up.” A great wracking cough rattled through his chest at that moment, leaving him gasping for breath. He sat down the paper. There was his face on the front page in an article talking about his admission to this very hospital for pneumonia.

“That sounds… better?” It was a statement and a question. She looked at him hopefully.

“Oh, believe me, I do feel better than I did yesterday.” He spit out the great glob of yellow phlegm that had caught in his throat, then wiped his mouth.

“On the mend, then!” She smiled down at her VIP patient. Her shift was approaching its end and she felt some degree of melancholia about that. Rubbing elbows with the rich and famous was quite fun.

Illness was the great leveler, after all.

She couldn’t wait to tell her fiancé! 

And her mom. 

And her best friend. 

Technically she was not supposed to tell anyone about this fellow, privacy laws and all that, but how could she be expected to keep a secret like this? She had really met him, spoken to him, touched him. The part she would not tell anyone about was the number in her pocket. He had slipped it to her after telling her she was beautiful and that he would like to hook up sometime. She patted her scrubs absently to make sure the paper was still there. Not that she would ever take him up on it, mind you.

Power was sexy…. but phlegm? Not so much.

She walked out of the room and back to the nurses station where she charted her activities of the past hour or so in the EHR. She caught sight of the man’s wife getting off an elevator and she found herself watching with envy. The woman was beautiful in a way she herself could never hope to be. His wife walked purposefully, a blue coat draped elegantly over her arm, a slight smile curled on her lips. No one at the hospital had ever seen her smile before. They were all warned to stay out of her way.

He must have called to tell her he was feeling better.

The nurse glanced back at the computer screen. There was a new order for another six bags of potassium for the fellow in room 432. 

How odd.

A quick check of the blood test results reassured her. His potassium level was indeed very low.

She checked her watch. It would be another 30 minutes before she could hang the next one. The next shift would be kept busy, that was for sure.

*********************************

The papers and news stations all shouted about his death. Across every front page. Leading every news program.

He was dead.

She couldn’t believe it. How? He was getting better.

Then fear. 

Did she do something wrong?

*********************************

The voice on the other line spoke a greeting in Russian. 

“It is done?” she asked.

“Da,” the voice said gruffly then hung up.

She smiled to herself as she dropped the burner phone into the crackling fire and poured herself a glass of champagne.

Yes. Of course it was done. A simple hacking right under their noses and no one would ever know. Cardiac arrest from a potassium overdose. In the hospital. They would do everything possible to keep it hidden if it were discovered. No one wants to be the hospital that killed someone like him…

It was a beautiful, elegant thing.

There would be no other women.