I lie upon these stiff white sheets,
In a room meant only for the unfeeling.
White walls. White linens. White lights
That have been dimmed
But never truly disappear.
Wires cling to places on my body,
Small adhesive circles holding me captive
To a machine that knows the rhythm of my heart
Better than I do tonight.
Telemetry has free rein over my innermost secrets:
Every beat, every pause, every rebellion
My heart decides to wage.
I am vulnerable here.
Not the kind of vulnerability
We admit to in daylight,
When we smile and pretend
We have everything under control.
This is different.
This is lying still while something inside you
Has gone awry,
And knowing you cannot simply
Will it back into place.
So I lie in the darkness, listening.
The occasional footsteps of the overnight staff
Drift down the hallway.
A whispered conversation.
The soft squeak of rubber soles.
A door opening, then closing.
Small reminders that the world is still moving
While I remain here.
The monitor beside me flashes its tiny lights,
Counting out the seconds of a night
That seems to have forgotten
How to end.
And somehow those meaningless whispers
And blinking lights assure me I still exist.
But nights have a way of making the mind tell stories
It would never dare to tell in the daylight.
Fear grows louder when the room grows quiet.
Hope seems farther away.
Every shadow becomes a question.
Every unfamiliar sound becomes a possibility.
And then there is the loneliness:
That particular loneliness of reaching out
Your hand into the darkness,
Only to find no hand waiting to grasp it.
So I leave my hand there for just a little while, open, waiting,
Trusting that somewhere beyond these stiff white sheets,
Beyond these wires and blinking lights,
Beyond this long, unforgiving night,
Morning is still coming.
Maybe I will still be here to meet it.
Michele Luckenbaugh is a patient advocate.
