Sunday Morning

Sunday mornings are my favorite time of the week. I like to just sit somewhere and have coffee, reading the paper or a book. There's something so romantic about the day, but this is an experience I had working one Sunday morning in the ER. A little boy, 4 years old, came in unresponsive and we couldn't do anything for him. None of us were willing to quit, and I did CPR on him for about 30 minutes. Halfway through, I made the mistake of looking into his eyes. Needless to say, this poem is painful, but cathartic and wonderful. I still love Sunday mornings, though.

Sunday Morning

All over this frozen city, people
are lying in bed sipping
steaming coffee, clipping coupons,
or making love
to ward off the February chill.

Here I stand alone, drowning.
There is no Sunday romance for me
as I batter this little boy’s chest.
Reasoning, bargaining.

I sliced this baby’s jammies
off with my own cold
sterile steel in slow motion
as the world fast-forwards.

Poise.
Brace.
Pump.
That’s my job.

“Start CPR!”
“Push Epi!”
“Do it again, harder!”
“Make the beat count!”

Fiery tears threaten, recede
as I stare blankly at beeping screen.
Four years old, no life left.
Lying on a slab, blue
jammies flayed open.

“Stop CPR.”
Breath heaving from the effort, I glance down-
look at his face. Warm mahogany
irises watch, done.
And I touch a gloved hand to soft brown hair.

Baby, keep fighting. I’m fighting with you.
Monitors slow to a final halt,
Cold, silent.

I shut it down, roar inside.
The clock stopped softly, 10 a.m.
I ran - knelt, rocked
alone in a sterile bathroom-
Screamed, shattered mirrors.
Because the funeral march breaks

Inside my head for the little
boy in sliced blue pajamas.

While all over this frozen city, people
are lying in bed sipping
steaming coffee, clipping coupons,
or making love
to ward off the February chill.