Here I am again, holding your hand in this cold hospital room where the noise of the monitors and devices never fall silent. I guess I wouldn’t them to. I am telling you about my day and what I learned in class today. This has been our ritual since preschool, except now, instead of learning about colors and the alphabet, I’m learning about the body’s different metabolic processes. You stay silent, but I know you are listening.
The doctor comes in and speaks to me about all the issues making your body this thin. He reads off a computer screen stating low potassium, acute kidney injury, and high urine creatine values. You’ve had two blood transfusions since your admission here, but it doesn’t seem to be doing anything. He asks if I understand what your diagnosis means, and I do, although I wish I didn’t. I squeeze your hand once he leaves and go back to studying my Anki deck. The nurse comes in to tell me visiting hours are over, and I kiss your head and willing you to wake up; still, you fall silent. I hate leaving you in this cold room, but there’s nothing I can do.
Our empty apartment is devoid of light and laughter because you took it all with you. It was a long day between class this morning and another round of tests for you, and I am tired, the type of tired sleep can’t fix. I sit here on my bed, looking at the white coat that hangs overhead that I haven’t even gotten to wear yet. And I think about our joy when I finally got in. Every day, I learn more about the human body and the things that cause it to work incorrectly. And I can’t help but think if I was smarter, older, more attentive, maybe I could have seen how thin you were getting. I missed all the signs, and you kept telling me you were okay, and I wanted more than anything to believe you, so I did. I was scared to see the signs for what they were, implications of deterioration. I should have known better. I am supposed to know better, but I lacked the knowledge when I needed it most. I sit in class day after day, learning to become a physician, and I hope, and I pray that maybe I can save someone from this same fate.