Three words.A whole world left behind.
The sun touched Bed 5 with its first soft beam.
I was awake all night, guarding every breath,
fighting every hour with God and Satan to wean him off the ventilator.
Ten hours of bargaining.
Ten hours of hoping lungs would remember how to live.
He was almost ready.
Almost.
You handed me the ICU.
You left with the dawn.
Your gloves snapped, your eyes caught mine.
Tired. Silent.
We didn’t need words.
We never do.
Just three words you left behind,
hanging heavier than the ventilator alarms:
Extubate him well.
And then you were gone, swallowed by hallways and sunlight.
It lingered.
It burned.
It wasn’t just about him anymore.
It was about the way we fight death together —
with hands that heal,
with hearts too stubborn to quit,
with a faith bigger than any shift report.
You told me everything without saying a thing.
Extubate him well.
Take care of him.
Take care of yourself.
Take care of us.
