The ICU bed can hardly contain the size
of your body, your swollen feet sticking out
of the covers looking for a place to feel free
of restraints, but you are constrained
by tubes and machines—an arterial line,
an IV and infusion pump, a temperature
probe, a pulse oximeter, an inflatable
cuff, a nasal cannula, a heart monitor.
You feel like a string puppet with a pumping
heart who now wishes yesterday’s tomorrow
had been yesterday’s today, when you were
still autonomous and could walk the dogs,
swim a few laps, read with your son, give
your wife a cuddle on the sofa. What could
wait yesterday has become urgent today.
Today, large clots block the blood flow to your lungs.
No catheter inserted through your groin can hurt
as much as the thought that it could be too late.