but i cant sing, i have a sore finger

yesterday was my first experience with death.
my first experience of being the first on scene.
my first time pronouncing a death.
my first time having a person die while i was touching them.

death, my friends, is a strange strange thing. And he wears many masks.
i have experienced the prelude to death many times.
And the void and relief once it has finally concluded.
but i had yet to be there as it happened.
i had yet to feel the conglomeration of emotions associated with being there in physical contact at the moment of passing,
the confusion of not being able to tell if the person was still alive,
the dread of talking to family members while still not knowing if the patient was 100% on the other side,
the long wait for a call from the coroner telling you if the death was suspicious and necessitates the performance of an autopsy.
the surreal feeling of pushing the loaded gurney through the hospital, in perfect silence, and entering the walk-in cold box serving as a morgue.

it is a heavy job.
physically heavy
heavy demands
emotionally laden.

but there are always brief moments of lightness.
speaking in brogues with the unit clerk to make fun of the doctor on call.
eating lemon pudding from the patient fridge.
holding up my sore finger for the unit clerk to see (who was actually very interested in it) and then breaking into movie lines ("but i cant sing - i have a sore finger").
having the interlocutor recognize the movie line.
being encouraged to join the local dramatic society
ice cream cake