A Poem about Santa in ICU

‘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…

https://www.organdonation.nhs.uk/register-to-donate/register-your-details/

Credit: The Intensive Care Registrar https://m.facebook.com/icureg/

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