© Homaira Zaman, MS4
As I enter the funeral home, I’m relieved to note that most of the female attendees are wearing colors other than black. I stand in the antechamber and adjust my plum-colored kameez and matching hijab, all the while watching the others huddle around poster boards. They’re whispering at baby pictures, smiling at memories from a high school prom, and signing their names in an album of condolences.
I know the names of my patient’s parents only from the obituary in the newspaper. I brainstorm ways to explain my presence to complete strangers, but my mind is a jumble of incomplete sentences. The 2016 presidential election is fast approaching, and I’ve ventured alone into a small town in rural Pennsylvania. I guessed from the patient’s tattoo that we come from different backgrounds, but I only now realize how much I stand out among the other guests. I brace myself for the possibility that I will be asked to leave.
I turn the corner into the reception hall, and I see my patient.
Suddenly, I remember standing on the right side of her bed in room seven of the ICU. I’ve encountered ruptured intestines and postpartum hemorrhages during my time as a third-year medical student, but nothing compares to this soup of blood and feces spilling from the rectal catheter, soaking the sheets to a deep shade of pomegranate. I breathe through my mouth so I don’t have to turn away.
I see her in profile. She’s young; we could be the same age. No one in the hospital knows her name, date of birth, or whether she has a family that cares about her.
A few minutes later, I’m kneeling beside her, pounding on her chest. With each compression, her head rocks along with the rest of the bed. Her eyes are half-closed, and for a fleeting moment, I think she sees me. Once, perhaps twelve hours ago, these eyes were brown; now, they are yellow marbles. The last thing she ever saw was the underside of a bench. She was gone long before I touched her. I’m pounding on the heart of a corpse.
We stop the code just before midnight. The hospital lies still; the air around us has stopped conducting sound.
Later, when the coroner has left the room, two nurses are rolling the patient onto her side. I bend over her back and squint at the tattoo, etched in warped cursive just beneath her neck.
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for thou art with me;
thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
At the funeral, I briefly introduce myself to the patient’s mother before it is time to sit for the eulogy. The pastor speaks extensively about drug overdoses and how this young woman had dedicated her life to rehab for the past two years.
Afterward, a middle-aged lady in a royal blue dress introduces herself to me as the patient’s aunt. She sits down in the chair next to me and takes my hand in hers.
“She died peacefully?” she whispers.
She’s neither asking nor confirming. She’s pleading.
“She didn’t suffer.”
She leans her temple against mine, and I wrap my right arm around her shoulder. Together, we watch as the patient’s mother strokes her daughter’s hair for the last time.
Outside, I hear that the patient’s father is looking for me. In all likelihood, he’s planning to ask for medical details; after all, his family was greeted on a Saturday morning with only a packet of autopsy results. I decide to leave before I meet him, but he sees me in the parking lot on the way to my car.
“You were there for her at the very end, when we couldn’t be.”
I blink. His eyes are a light shade of brown, just like his daughter’s.
“I’m sure you did everything you could.” He pauses, and then he asks, “May I give you a hug?”
I throw my arms around him, and we hold each other for a long, silent minute. My breathing slows to a steady rhythm. His hand pats slowly against my back, as my own father would have done.
We say our goodbyes, and I drive away. They never knew my name.
My drive home is plagued with traffic. My eyelids are heavier than my hands. Without warning, I’m struggling to raise my arm to grip the steering wheel. To keep myself awake, I recite verses of the Quran from memory, and the entire car vibrates from the piercing volume of my voice.
By the morning brightness,
And the night when it covers with darkness,
Thy Lord hath not forsaken thee, nor is he displeased.
And what comes after will be better for thee than what has gone before.
Once I’m home, I settle down on the lawn to watch the sunset. In the frigid breeze, I remember her aunt’s forehead on my shoulder and the feel of her father’s hand against my back.
Judges Comments:
This is the story of a brave act born of compassion and complicated by cultural differences. With both a vivid flashback and haunting turns of phrase, the author conveys the difficulty of this experience—from the hospital (“I’m pounding on the heart of a corpse”) to the funeral home (“Together, we watch as the patient’s mother strokes her daughter’s hair for the last time”). The author describes a rare and powerful experience to reveal that saying goodbye is one of the monumental privileges of the profession, though it is also tied to some of the profession’s most profound responsibilities and challenges.