hearts and lungs

10:30 at night in the lobby of Duke University Medical Center, a security guard sat at a shiny, black piano and tickled the keys quietly to himself. hidden by the lit christmas tree beside him and the sterile odor of sickness, procedure, and loneliness, i believe i may have been the only one who even noticed his notes or the way he bowed his head to his chest slightly as he played. i stepped off the visitor's elevator on the 8th floor and headed to the wing where its' sickest patients lie fighting for their next seconds, some consciously but most of them not. she emerged from the heavy double doors with tired eyes, blue scrubs, and a mask draped loosely around her ears, for she is the one who fights with them and for them. she grinds through 12 blood and fluid-filled hours so that they may experience even just 12 more pain-free seconds in this world. and though i didnt know exactly how capable my heart was, in that moment it let go a tad bit more. if the sick can trust her with their weakened, diseased hearts, then i can open my slightly battered one.

back down in the lobby, the tired pianist gone, the silence gave way to the late night hours, the doors parted, and i greeted the cold air. i could see my own breath hanging in clouds against the chill and noted how very different the simple act of my own breathing was compared to the belabored, manufactured breaths of ventillators in the world i left her with upstairs. i knew that in a few hours she would be able to go home regardless of how many of the sick weren't saved, and we would would feel every bit of the weight that luck carries with it.