Disclaimer! Information in this article may be triggering. Reader discretion is advised.

Silence!

No one dares to make a move least they are next. One. Two. Three long minutes pass. The curtains are drawn and her small body covered. The silence is deafening and only Mama J’s screams puncture it. The emergency cart is reassembled and pushed to the corner. Not even epinephrine and several rounds of CPR could keep Baby J for a little longer.

In the next bed, a mother clutches her a son a little too tight that the small boy tries to wiggle out but the mother is having none of it. On the opposite bed, a mother turns and pulls the covers over hers and her sleeping child’s face. No one mantains eye contact. A formerly bubbly, loud and chatty ward turns ghostly. Sadness looms above it.

Duties resume and nurses continues adminstering drugs. Creaky trolleys are pushed from one bed to the next. A ward round proceeds in the next ward cubicle. The volume of a radio is slowly and fearfully turned up to occupy the silence. No word is said. Life moves on.
I move to the nurse station. In my hands, I tightly grip the yellow inpatient file. The last written review reads, ‘transfer to ICU.’ Only a week old, the file holds efforts big enough but not strong enough to fight the claws of death.
‘The heavens gained a sweet angel, Baby J.’ I write in my notebook against Baby J’s medical history which the mum had given me less than an hour ago.

I linger around the nurse station desperately fighting tears that well up in my eyes. I am afraid to walk back in the wards with sorrow and disappointment plastered on my face. I need to radiate hope to the other mums. I adjust my face mask hoping it covers my tear filled eyes and masks the sadness. I finally manage to pull on a poker face. A quick glimpse on my phone is barely reassuring that my face looks hopeful but life has to move on. I pick the next inpatient’s file and walks towards mama T. How I manage to keep my voice neutral without breaking down is beyond my comprehension.

Within an hour, normalcy is regained. Children run around, throwing their tiny cannulated hands in the air. The radio’s volume is now full blown and a few mothers catch up on latest events. Some are discharged happy and feeling better. Some receive visitors who bring with them much needed hope, laughter and of course matunda ya wagonjwa. New admissions are brought in and her bed gets a new occupant. Life moves.

My poker face lasts for the better part of the day but what happens when it cracks?
Well, we get another one and fix the crack! Life moves on and gradually but faithfully carries us away from loss.

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Heeeey you
My lovely esteemed reader😊. How do you feel after reading this?
If you know a health care worker / student, be there for them when their poker face cracks. Handling loss sadly has no manual.