My Mask

By Becky Topham

I am not an Intensive Care Nurse
I am just a me
I am not as hard and weathered as I thought
I am actually more horrified than I believed I could be,

I think of the sturdy, tattooed man from last night
I whispered only this morning: “I will see you tonight”
And then I arrived and looked for my hope of hope
But while I was sleeping, he had lost his fight

And deflated, I look over at the 39 year old
In the bed across, tubed and dying
His organs all beaten, betraying him
I am on the verge of crying
But I don’t

Instead I listen -and my skin prickles
There is beautiful music here
An Islamic Prayer his mother has asked us to play
They hold the Iphone gently to his ear.
This prayer -it is her touch, her kiss, her ‘please live another day’.

I realise that I am hearing true love transported
His mother’s love is tangible; emotive its waves
Her desperate gift of comfort without presence
So heartbreaking a way to end one’s days.

To watch a person die alone
Amongst strangers in space suits and masks
This is what rips at my resilience
It is soul destroying, I turn away, pretend to be immersed in tasks
But I am crying now- and for once- glad of my visor and mask

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Written Word ‘Heart’ poems