As we wander our path through life, almost all of us will have tangential meetings with the Reaper a time or two before our final, personal reckoning.
But some of us meet him a bit more often than that.
Death quietly, continuously stalks the halls of the ICU, peering over our shoulders as we struggle and fight to keep him out. Or at least to delay his inevitable arrival. Perhaps in other cultures, he is not so feared and worshipped at the same time. But here, in America, we have a fascination with Death.
Some of us are hell-bent on meeting him as soon as possible. I get to know some of those folks, trying to help them while they rush headlong to embrace that grim specter. Most don't think that is what they are doing. They are just "living their lives". From the outside though, they are quite obviously living to die. Still, we do what we can. It is our charge, even when we know our efforts will be wasted the second they are out of our care and back in their own.
Others ignore that they are firmly holding Death's hand, being led down that path. They beg us to fight, order us to stave him off, to keep them alive. Or perhaps their families do the begging, the screaming, the ordering. We know there is nothing more. The time has arrived. But we respect their wishes and requests, even when we know it will do no good. To a point that is. Then we have to assert, and let Death have his due.
Then there are those who surprise you. Perhaps they saw death coming for a bit, but they turned that corner. They walked away. We helped get them past that, and we feel the joy of our success. And we blink. And they are gone. No one saw it coming, no one knows why Death came for them, so swiftly, so suddenly. Our joy becomes confusion becomes guilt becomes resignation.
Death comes for us all. And lately I have been walking by his side.