Purgatory

 Is there a word to describe
the mixture of shock and elation

and grief a nurse feels

when aa Covid victim--

trached for air

sedated for lung compliance

foley for urine--maybe

flexi for diarrhea

Quinton for dialysis from Covid-kidney failure

central line for heparin, propofol, precedex, fentanyl,

levo, vaso, antibiotics, blood

A-line to watch their heart and pressure

restrained on the off chance

they wake and come rip roaring to life

left for hours

and days

and weeks

maybe months

in a black hole of a room

in the basement of the hospital

in a row of isolation rooms

in a maze of rows

each one, a cell of ceramic and drywall, and ceiling tile,

alone for never ending eternity

aside from the hourly rounds

medication administration

suctioning

oral care

and the occasional bath--when the

waveforms and data on the monitors

tell the nurses their oxygen reserves

can withstand being turned

from one side to the other

and back again,

all but assumed a lost cause,

covered in deep tissue wounds and eschar

from bed sores from being bed bound

and prone

because nothing matters more than

airway, breathing, circulation--

feels your hand on theirs

and suddenly squeezes back

and you realize

My God.

There is a person in there.

Still

Somehow

Awake

Clinging to your hand

So stay in the darkness

praying the mask you've worn three days in a row

won't snap off,

the makeshift shield a friend's friend has printed

won't flip apart

standing in the stifling heat in the plastic bag

protecting your skin from the plague,

every second you stay

a risk to your life

as their gasps vent aerosolized Covid

out of the back oof the machine that is 

forcing breath into them

and try to tell them,

You are not alone

I'm still fighting for you

Stay with me

But you don't know Spanish

so the only thing that comes out of your mouth 

is the lie:

Está bien, papi.