Poem: Intensive Care

The dilemma on call is whether to sleep or not. Sleep is fairly unsatisfying; I'm constantly interrupted by nurses, the bed isn't too comfortable, I worry about my patients. But what do I do if I stay up? It's too late to concentrate on reading papers. I catch up on emails. Procrastinate. Write a poem or two. Here's today's poem, written in a call-delirium. I don't know what my reaction will be when I reread it in the morning.

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Intensive Care

I wonder what it's like to wake up in hell.
Naked, cold, wrists bound
in a regression to slavery.
Beat me hard enough with drugs
and I'll surrender the numbers you crave.
What a sight it must be
to see my chest rise and fall
and feel the ventilator
pry me open like bellows.
I can't even see;
I have no idea where my glasses are,
and I can't ask for them, or speak,
or gesture. What is it like
to wake up to an auditorium of faces,
students, nurses, pharmacists, doctors,
physical therapists, dieticians, social workers
in the blinking lights and artificial night
they try to create here.
The TV is on; it's in a different language
and all I do is stare.