This poem is based on a clinical encounter and has been de-identified to protect patient privacy. Certain identifying details have been omitted or modified.
Ninety-two-year-old male. Unwitnessed fall.
History of atrial fibrillation on Eliquis.
Airway is patent.
I asked how long you had been on the floor
not what occupied your mind
during the hour you lay alone.
Lung sounds clear and equal bilaterally.
But I never heard the breath you held
when you realized the body could no longer lift itself.
Radial pulses 2+.
Capillary refill brisk.
My fingertips traced hands
worn rough by turning soil and working steel.
Alert and oriented. GCS 15.
You told me your name, where you were, and the date,
then you spoke of your wife of six decades
and your daughter, a nurse.
You smiled.
Laceration on the forehead. Ecchymosis across the abdomen.
Tenderness over the left hip.
I listed the scans to be ordered, knowing
they would reveal none of the years that came before
or quiet understanding that ninety-two is both a lifetime
and still not enough.
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