Fanfare for the ICU

I've spent a lot of time the last two weeks in the ICU of a local hospital, watching, waiting and praying - not only with a member-family from church, but with others as well. The power of a clerical shirt and what it represents is not to be underestimated in places and times like that. 

Robert's family had been waiting for hours for their priest to arrive. Meanwhile, doctors and nurses scurried about, trying desperately to save the older gentleman. For whatever reason - and let the reader understand: I offer no judgement - the priest did not come. I was there. The wife accepted my offer to go to the bedside of the dying man, pray for and bless him. 

This came from watching the day's events from the neighboring ICU room. 

Fanfare of the Intensive Care

Copeland wrote for The Common Man, 

   Melodies strong and bold,

This is Fanfare of another kind,

   A score that must be told.

The IV infuser chirps away,

   Singing in minor key,

While fluids drip from bottles and bags,

   Hanging from the stainless-steel tree.

Ventilators sigh, in three-quarter time,

   A sad, melancholy waltz,

The heart, absent it’s four-quarter beat,

   A strange, disrythmic gestalt.

Conductor rushes in, dressed to the nines,

   In the finest of medical wear,

But N95 mask and Tyvek tux,

   Can’t hide her worry and care.

The audience of a son and a wife

   Pray “Our Father” as she frantically tries;

Then the doc, who’s done all that she could,

   Shakes her head: the melody dies.

The room, once loud, with electronic sound,

   Is now full of the widow’s pain

And doctor and son in chorus with her,

   A somber, tearful refrain. 

This concert plays daily, across the land:

   Damned Covid, neither caring or fair,

Nurses, doctors, and patients playing a part of

   The Fanfare of the Intensive Care.