When the nurses, interns, doctors came running full tilt down the hall,
Dragging the crash-cart with shrieking wheels and flagless i.v. pole,
And that squat box, the defibrillator, made to jolt the heart;
Then, pasted against the walls, we next-of-kin ran after them
To your room, Mother-in-Law, where they hammered hard on your chest,
Forcing you back to life in which you had no further interest.
For the third time they pressed like lovers on your frail bones
To restart the beat. They cheered! Marked you alive on your chart,
Then left you, cold, incontinent, forlorn.
When the man loved by you and me appealed to your doctor
To know why you couldn’t have your way and be let go,
He said, “I couldn’t just stand there and watch her die.”
Later, when it was over, we spoke to a physician
Grown grey and wise with experience, our warm friend,
But ice when he considers the rigors of his profession,
And repeated to him your young death-doctor’s reply,
We heard the stern verdict no lesser person could question:
But that was his job, to just stand there and watch her die.
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