Whimper

I stare down at the man. It's almost midnight. His name is David. He's almost 60 years old, but has the muscular build of a middle aged athlete. I took out his enlarged prostate three days ago. Up till now he's had a completely unremarkable post-op course. In fact, he's done better than expected. He was already up walking, eating, clear urine in the foley bag, etc. Now, things have changed.

His eyes are half open, pupils constricted, eyes slowly wandering away from the flashlight. He whimpers and whines like a beaten dog cowering in a corner. His heart beat is a little fast, but otherwise vital signs are normal. He is snoring. Just that evening, according to his son, he drank some water and had some porridge. Then he started mumbling incoherently out of the blue.

I have the nurse, Faka, find an IV and start a drip of 10% glucose. I look down at him. He continues to moan in a pitiful way as if he's extremely afraid. I wonder at my reaction. I want to feel something good, but all I feel is that I wish he would stop being so pitiful and that I wasn't woken out of a deep sleep and have to be here to see him like this. I'm disgusted and angry in my feelings while in my head I'm thinking, why can't I love him? But I feel nothing. I pray silently that my feeling will change.

As the glucose runs in, David starts to wake up. Faka then starts another IV in the other arm and gets some normal saline running. David starts to have purposeful movement and mumbles something. His son says he wants some water to drink. We lift his head up a little and he swallows have a glass of water. The IV on the right with the normal saline is pouring in. I notice that the glucose on the left is running slowly. I see that the IV is infiltrated.

I stop the glucose and when the saline is all in I switch the rest of the glucose over to the right. David wakes up even more. He mumbles something else in his native tongue. I ask his son to interpret.

"He says his ancestors are calling out to him from the grave and he's afraid."

I suggest we pray for him. They are all in agreement. I grab his hand and David holds mine tightly. At the end, I tell the son to ask him if he needs anything.

"He says he wants some porridge."

"Go ahead."

They lift him up again and his wife gives him some porridge which he swallows easily. He then remains sitting up on his own. The family has visibly relaxed. David is now able to understand and respond to my questions in French as well. I tell him that now that he's better I'm going back home to sleep, but I'll keep praying for him.

As I walk back in the moonlit night, the cool breeze echos the tranquility of my soul. I fall back to sleep immediately. In what seems like the next instant, I hear a knock on the door. It's Faka.

"Our guy is dead. Not fifteen minutes after you left. Out of the blue."

I hear the wails and cries of the family waft across the lawn from the hospital. I sit in my chair in the blue light of a bug lamp. I want to cry, but no tears come, only questions that will never be answered.