“Please check on the patient in Room 5,” the nurse repeated, and I was strangely irritated by her clinical tone

As told to Shoshana Gross

H

er big, brown eyes were the first thing I saw when I stepped into her room, a lowly med student working on rotation in the ICU. After reading her file, I knew that Mrs. Grassini was dying of cancer, her height and weight, the precise medications she was taking, and much of her medical history. What I didn’t know was that her brown eyes still sparkled, or that she had a sense of humor behind the pallid mask of illness.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she told me sincerely. “I only wish I had something better to offer than a hard swivel chair!” She grinned, and I couldn’t help but grin back.

In my one-month stint in the ICU, she was the highlight of my day (or night, if I was on night shift). Unfailingly cheerful and polite, she would chat as I administered medicine and tried to make her comfortable. Her two daughters were often sitting in the room with her, and they were always grateful for my care.

When I came in that Wednesday morning, one of the nurses hurried over immediately. “Ayala, I think your patient in Room 5 passed away a few minutes ago.”

“Mrs. Grassini?” I asked.

“Please check on the patient in Room 5,” the nurse repeated, and I was strangely irritated by her clinical tone.

“I’ll look in on Mrs. Grassini,” I told her firmly.

The room was empty, except for the figure on the bed. The warm brown eyes were closed, the small, frail body still. In the hushed silence, under the watchful eye of the resident doctor, I went through the motions — checked for a heartbeat, tested for pupil dilation, listened for the sound of breathing — but it was perfectly quiet. She was my patient, and she was no longer alive.