Death - it's nothing like you see on TV

I've been to the emergency room before, but tonight was different. It was a busy Friday night, the first night of a long holiday weekend in Canada. My dad's Acute Care station was just across from the ambulance unloading bay. Everyone who was admitted to the emergency room had to pass by my dad's station, which was adjacent to the nurse's monitoring station. As I sat with my father, comforting him, holding his hand, stroking his face, watching him deteriorate in front of my eyes, I began to despair. It was the first time I had ever seen him so weak, and the first time I had ever heard him talk about his own death in a matter-of-fact manner. Until now, his thoughts on death were that it would come soon enough, "but not yet" (to steal a line from Gladiator). He said things to me, in a voice not loud enough to qualify as a whisper, that a man says when he thinks he's near the end of his days. They were beautiful things, the things a dad says to a son or daughter, the things that don't get said while all is well. I tried desperately to hold back my tears. Thankfully, he was drifting off into laboured sleep often enough to find opportunities to dry my tears and slip away for short periods to compose myself.

Occasionally, a nurse would come by to check the IV line, adjust the monitor, or ask whether my dad needed anything. For the most part, however, my dad was left in my care, to sleep, to wake, and to smile as he saw my ever-present face.

I think it happened around 1:00AM, though I didn't check my watch. I had heard them call the code, and vaguely remember the sounds of hustling staff. And then the wail... a sound unlike any I had ever heard. You can watch as many newsreels as you like, and I've watched my share, but to hear the sound of death with your own ears, happening not 50 feet from where I sat, was something that will haunt me always.

Except to say that the words were foreign, I don't know what language was spoken. It really didn't matter. No translation was necessary. Voices, young and old, proclaimed the passing of a loved one.

I began to cry. My first instinct was to find and console those that were crying. I hadn't seen them... didn't know them... but I knew they needed company. And then I looked at my father. He had managed to sleep through the awful sounds, and they hadn't even seemed to register on his sub-conscious, because I didn't see evidence that his recurring nightmares of the Nazi concentration camps had been any more intense than usual.

I was to learn afterward that the room had been available since 8:30PM the night before, but due to paperwork SNAFU's, the busier-than-usual night, and a shift change mixup, my dad did not get taken to his room until after 2:00AM. The resident on duty wanted to know whether I would stay to help fill in the medical history, and I indicated I would. By the time she got back to me, it was more than an hour later, and I was finally finished by 3:45AM. My father was now resting as comfortably as could be expected, and I was completely wiped out. I got home at 4:15AM, tried to unwind, and finally got to sleep around 6:00AM.