‘Twas the night before Christmas; all through ICU
Not a patient was stirring, not even bed 2.
The propofol hung on the dripstand with care
With hopes that the day-shift soon would be there.
When outside the door there arose such a clatter
I sprang from the desk to see what was the matter.
I found my trainee with a porter and nurse
And moribund patient; I’ve rarely seen worse.
“Haemorrhage, hypoxia, resp effort was poor.
Tubed down in resus with sats through the floor.
Into deep coma with thiopentone,
But maybe too late – both his pupils are blown.”
“He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
Near a sleigh full of toys he was limp on the ground
With eight distraught reindeer just wand’ring around.”
As night turned to day we assembled a plan;
Was there aught we could do to assist this poor man?
Carbon monoxide from breathing in smoke
Had done nothing to help when he’d suffered this stroke.
His brainstem infarcted; we called in his wife
And told Mrs Claus of the end of his life.
She listened in silence, then spoke out at last:
“He’d want to help others now that he has passed.”
‘Twas the last hour of Christmas; and off down the hall
Goes Santa, deliv’ring his best gift of them all…
Credit: The Intensive Care Registrar https://m.facebook.com/icureg/