A Modern Sisyphus

Hushed whispers drifted in from the ajar door – neutropenic sepsis... malignency... neck, lung... Stale dry air rushed over sweat soaked sheets. The nasal hi-flo mask had been pulled down by pale clammy hands, straining at the exertion against thin elastic. Muscles had long since atrophied, skin paper thin, picc line, medicated. A finger, manicured, pulled back invisible hair over a flushed ear, a habit.

Suddenly, bedside alarms chimed as an above display showed saturation dropping below 85%. Respirations were slowing. Her eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, flickering with orange alert lights. She waited.

A head poked through. It was a small Filipino man, stout in a teal uniform waving, “Hello!” His eyes fell upon the scene, widening in panic, “Oh no no! Mask slipped off!” He rushed over, quick with experience, nimble fingers readjusting and reinserting the nasal specs back into position. Almost immediately, the alarms were silenced with saturation rising above 88%.

Her eyes welled up with tears. She could feel her lungs expand as the flicker of life was stoked back from dying embers. Her hand stretched out, meekly grasping the health care assistants fingers. His gentle face pulled back into view. “Is everything okay my dear? Do you need another change? I can reposition you if you want?”

She held his hand, refusing to let go. “What is it dear? What can I do for you?” Her eyes, wet, silent. With just a faint squeeze, a welling of emotions coursed from frail hand to the Filipino man. His eyes darkened, misted. He understood.

More whispers outside – continue antibiotics, draw bloods... her attention was pulled back, a squeeze. The Filipino man squeezed her hand once more. He averted his eyes, unable to bear her courage. She knew what she wanted. He hesitated. A glance back, her eyes encouraging him, gave him the motivation to turn around and slip back into the corridor.

The whispers grew silent. She tried to hear, twisting her head to try catch a glimpse through the doorway. Alas, the roar of the air drowned out anything discernable. While waiting, she toyed with her wrist band: Mirren, Adelle. It had frayed on the edges and was close to breaking off, but try as she could, it just would not snap.

The health care assistant returned, his stout frame slouched under a new burden. His gaze had diverted to the floor, his hand squeezing her hand gingerly. He slowly raised his eyes, a bare face hidden behind a blue surgical mask. She knew.

In desperation, she ripped her hand from his grip, yanking the face mask down. She tried to pull off the face mask but he stopped her, pleading with his eyes. She flashed fire in her gaze, furious. He raised his hands up, asking for a chance. Stone face was all he got back.

He retreated back out, backlit by orange blaring alerts. More whispering. The rush of air once again drowned out any meaningful words as she averted her eyes back up to the ceiling, waiting. The door opened once more.

This time, a fleet of white coats marched in. Gowned with gloves and aprons, they poured over her: adjusting cannulas, talking at her, pointing at the monitors, repeating themselves, pointing once more at the monitor to drive the point, explaining the consequences of what may (will) happen, poking at her skin, capillary refill, pulling the blankets down, skin check, catheter check, and talking more, talking at her, adjusting their gloves, typing what they were talking about on their workstation, always talking – “Can the HCA put the mask back on.”

Behind the chaos, in the dark corner, the healthcare assistant emerged, ashamed, cringing. He reached forwards, but he hesitated. Someone clicked a pen. His trembling hands put the mask back over her face and tightened it down.

She squeezed her eyes shut, screaming inside as air rushed back into her lungs. The embers still burned, the ashen log hollowed but still alight. The fleet of white coats poured back out. Again, they were alone.

A minute. Two minutes. Orange lights flashed above. She immediately pulled it off. The alarms had not even turned off yet, showing the low oxygen saturations plummet back down. He stood there silently. Outside whispers punctured through clamour – confused... delirious... dehydration... no next of kin.

He stepped back out. The white coats returned. The big talk.
More talk.
Mask.
Alarm.
Talks.
Mask.
Alarm.
Mask.
Dry air.
Wet eyes.