Doing a huge stretch at work here. Eight out of ten days — er, nights — on. Been stuck with a heavy patient for most of that time, and feeling a little raw.
See, usually it’s me working part-time that gets me not to care so much. Or when patients start to talk. But when you’re sedated and critical I’m sucked in like a bat to a fruit tree, or some other non-shitty metaphor, ha.
I don’t want to know who you are as a person. I don’t want to know your opinions on things or hear what you have to say about the weather, news, or sports. I really only like — no, love — this job when you’ve got a tube coming out of every orifice and we are going on a ride *this* near death — and then away from it — together. I want to conduct your body like an orchestra and I will get you through eight hours intact — or, better yet, like a motherfucking boy scout in a national park, leave you better than I found you.
Your family wants you to live, but they don’t understand how bad off you are. The doctors want you to live, and they know, but they’re not here, like I’m here right now, outside your room.
Perhaps more importantly than your family’s good intentions and the doctors who are asleep at night — I want you to live — and more than that, I won’t fucking let you die.