Deirdre Neilen, PhD: Liana Meffert graduated from medical school last May. She is currently a resident in emergency medicine in Washington, DC. She sent us a poem, "2:23," which captures the drama of an unsuccessful resuscitation and tells us how the true story is never really known.
"2:23"
Bullets are funny things,
that something so small can
hurt so much.
His phone keeps ringing,
hardly heard over the rhythmic thump
of the machine forcing blood
through his heart.
If you ask nicely,
I'll spoil the end for you,
if that's what you want.
The end of the story
is the bullet was never found,
though we hunted for one nestled
in the crest of his clavicle
& other places -- we searched
for an answer to save us all.
His phone keeps ringing:
a second life he's left
hanging on its cradle
above the kitchen sink,
backdrop of peeling wallpaper,
a story, a cord,
wound around a finger.
Here, the pressure's dropping:
his heart a heavy slab of muscle
with no dance.
Attending says it's time to call it
like a promise with an end.
Everyone steps away as
the room eats itself whole.
A towel is placed over his eyes,
heavy blanket over his body,
blood & epi still hanging high.
Someone keeps calling.
The end of the story
is the bullet was never found.
The phone rings:
a plea of a song
we don't dare answer.
