e

she was the first ward patient i'd looked after in a long time. a young thing, barely out of her teens, she was preoccupied with life, frustrated by an illness that seemed to thwart all her attempts at normality. for a while, as her lung function fluctuated, we wondered if she was really compliant with her treatment. our doubts made her angry: didn't we believe (in) her?

it was as if her entire existence hinged upon others believing in her. adolescence is tough enough to negotiate without having to deal with what is essentially a terminal illness. for her, walking that fine line between striving for independence and relying on others was particularly difficult. for someone who was yet to develop a strong sense of self-identity, who still needed other people to validate her choices, the loss of autonomy that came hand-in-hand with each hospital admission threatened to overwhelm her hesitant steps towards adulthood.

the final blow came months later, when i'd left the service. a colleague informed me that she was in icu with full blown respiratory sepsis. the bosses had decided to go down an unusual and bold path. she was on ecmo, and awake. the thought of it terrified me. i couldn't bring myself to go in and visit her. on each day that i went into work, doing another job at another hospital, one of the first things i'd do was to check on her latest bloods and chest x-ray. the little patch of aerated lung grew smaller and smaller; the oxygen level in her blood became lower and lower. sepsis gave way to ards. transplant wasn't an option. and then, finally...

icu is a frightening place to die. it's so completely alien. there is no day or night. there is no privacy. nurses and doctors, orderlies and clerks, family and friends, all come and go in shifts. the only constant is the throbbing fluorescent light reflecting off the shiny surfaces of medical hardware and the sterile white linen. endless miles of tubing sprout from banks of beeping machines and invade the helpless bodies on trolleys. the only view outside looks onto the enormous grey helipad, where broken bodies from traumas are brought in from all across the state. all we can offer are words, and when that fails, sedation.

she had dreams. simple, worthwhile ones. to finish uni. to move out of home. to travel. others waste their entire lives looking for reasons to live. she only wanted to live.

dream on, e. you're free at last.