Saturated in morphine <br />breathing like a hurt animal <br />maybe somewhere deep down <br />at the bottom of the mineshaft <br />a little light was flickering. <br />We spoke to her, sometimes loudly, <br />We held her hand and felt its warmth <br />We stroked her hair. <br /> <br />We expected the end in hours or a day, <br />More morphine and more wild animal rasping <br />on into the morning and the next morning. <br />Work days are missed, meetings postponed, <br />return flights canceled, everyone thinking <br />please hurry up, and feeling guilty for it, <br />asking the doctor how long now, and <br />how could her oxygen level be going back up. <br /> <br />More morphine and more animal breathing. <br />Just as she lived her life <br />she would die on her own terms, by God, <br />and screw us and our goddam schedules. <br />Sitting at her bedside, I realized <br />that someone who could be so infuriating in life <br />was now infuriating us with her death. <br />My sister looked over and wondered <br />what I was laughing about<br /><br />Michael Philips<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/do-not-resuscitate/
