The Faceless Patient

By: Faith Fountain

Walking into the cold, dark room

stripped of warmth and names,  

all I can see is the anatomical heart– 

beating out of sync, struggling,  

colorless. 

I can hear the shallow breaths. 

I can feel the faint pulse.

Clammy skin beneath my hands. 

But I cannot see a face. 

The chart holds numbers 

and past medical history. 

There’s a name attached– 

but why can’t I see their face? 

Doctors and nurses go in and out 

of that cold, dark room. 

They talk to each other. 

They talk at the patient. 

And still, I cannot see their face. 

Days pass,

and the room grows colder, darker. 

The heart becomes weaker. 

The breaths become more shallow. 

The tests become endless,  

and still, no face.  

What will it take? 

Long days at work and hours of training.

The badge heavy on my chest. 

In and out of different patients’ rooms. 

I used to see faces. 

Eyes full of hope, 

Eyes searching for it. 

Eyes heavy with sadness, 

light with joy, 

grateful. 

Behind them were stories, 

I once knew how to hear. 

Stories I have long missed. 

Oh, what would it take to see their face?  

I walked into that cold, dark room 

for the last time.

I could no longer see 

the anatomical heart.

The shallow breaths fade, 

muffled in my ears. 

And then, 

their eyes met mine.