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272 pages, Hardcover
First published April 11, 2017
I sit behind the nursing station, stomach rumbling, humbled, watching white coats flash behind curtains. It's tough to say I'm proud of these people, as I have had nothing to do with making them. Still, daily, I feel something akin to that when I watch these doctors navigate a floor full of sick and worried people. Maybe it's awe. Maybe that's what pride was supposed to be in the first place: the awe one feels at participating in something beautiful.
As cities pile people downtown, as people live longer on more medicines that make more side effects, have more surgeries and more complications, as specialization breaks bodies into smaller and smaller parts, as our population spends more time on screens than outside and grows ever more anxious, there are more people in our ER every day.
Attrition is high. Nurses, security guards, cleaners, all quit with great frequency. The ER is a place where they are sent as punishment, to think about what mistakes they've made among the grieving. Students pass through, a tour of duty to the front lines, grateful to leave the dying behind when their month is up. At home, emergency medicine is one of the most competitive specialties for medical students, and most who apply won't get in. Here, no one knows why you would do it, because it appears that for the sickest, little can be done.
The airway isn't a real thing; it's empty space over which a body pulls in wind as breath, then moves it out, vibrating it into cries and words, truths and lies. The hole there, at the vocal cords, is about the width of your smallest finger. I wonder how few of the strangers we pass on the street know this secret, that their entire life depends upon something so small? When it narrows, though, they know, and silent appeal begins.
Pleasepleasepleaseplease.